


Gasp

by felcraw



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Butcher of Torfan, Destruction, F/M, Mass Effect Spoilers, No Shepard without Vakarian, Paragon Commander Shepard, Post-Mass Effect 3, Ruthless (Mass Effect), Sentinel (Mass Effect), ending spoilers, nameless shepard, this is gonna be cheesy but that is what i need to heal, we were promised a turian-human baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 26,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9981350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felcraw/pseuds/felcraw
Summary: Because we were promised a turian-human baby, and I mean to get us there.





	1. From the Rubble

_Gasp._

The air she pulled in stung, burning all the way down into her lungs. She coughed, crying out; something was cracked, her ribs or her sternum or her collarbone. Maybe everything. One eye cracked open, squinting; holding her hand aloft, she saw it was dark and sticky with blood, fingers flexing weakly. Her armor was charred, black, unrecognizable; in places it had either disintegrated or fallen apart, leaving her skin bare beneath. It was so pale. It struck her that she shouldn’t be so pale. A cold shard of fear stabbed through her. If death was to be her fate, why couldn’t it have been fast and fearless? She’d earned that much, at least.

With another pained groan she hauled herself into a half-sit. Only one eye would open, but it was enough. This was no longer the Citadel. This was nothing, a crumbling canyon of rubble and sparking wires and twisted metal. She and Anderson were the only living beings left on the vast structure, but wait, no — Anderson… She was the only thing with a heartbeat left in the debris.

She reached up to her visor, meaning to hit the mic, but it was lost long before. No comm channel, then. No way to contact the fleet, no way to send an SOS. The cold shard twisted in her chest. She’d come this far, and then beyond… This couldn’t be the end. It couldn’t. It _couldn’t._

Shepard had never been one to give up before all her options were extinguished. This was certainly no time to change. She swallowed hard, licked her burnt lips, and opened her mouth. “Help,” she croaked. It burned through her throat and ached in her chest. She tried again. “Help.” Louder now, stronger. Somewhere in the distance a massive metal structure groaned and snapped, the crash resounding throughout the empty cavern. She winced.

“Help.”

Maybe a comm channel was open, somewhere. Stranger things had happened, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished playing the series for the first time, and my soul has been rent to shreds with the happiest ending I could hope for. This is my therapy. Probably super bite-sized chapters coming up!


	2. In the Jungle

Tali pressed the plaque into his hands, squeezing them slightly as she did. “She was yours more than any of us. You should have the honor.” Her lilting accent was low, sad. As much as was possible behind her shaded mask, Tali’s eyes bored into him. They glowed dimly. It made sense. The galaxy was darker now, after all.

“I’m not sure I would call it an honor,” he replied, mandibles flexing. “But, yeah. Thanks.” The slim rectangle of metal was cold, the edges sharp, biting into the pads of his fingers. He gripped it too tightly, but the pain almost felt good.

Moments before, a silent, tight-lipped Joker had committed EDI’s plaque to the wall. He nestled her in the slot between Mordin and Legion. “She’d have wanted to be near friends,” he’d muttered, stepping back and turning away. It was all he said. His fists, white-knuckled and tight against his sides, spoke louder.

Kaidan had placed Admiral Anderson’s plaque with great solemnity, adjusting the corners until they were level, perfect. Garrus could feel him staring at the one he held now. They’d had a history, Kaidan and Shep; the major had been with her from day one. Claimed he loved her. Begged her to come back to him, not so long ago. Even now, his big, brown doe eyes gazed at her memorial plate with the same silent yearning they’d reserved for the curves and angles of the woman.

But Garrus wasn’t giving up this damn plaque. Not to Kaidan. Not to anyone.

It was his turn, now. He stepped forward, fingering the engraved lettering. _Commander Shepard._ Whoever had this made couldn’t even put her first name on there. He almost smiled; she would have hated that. She’d given up trying to get people to call her anything but _Shepard._ He’d always used her first name when they were alone, uttering it low, a secret to be kept.

He looked at the wall. _Thane Krios,_ it read. _Adm. David Anderson. Mordin Solus. EDI. Legion. Ashley Williams._ There easily could have been more, but Shepard was the kind of leader that didn’t let people die if she could help it.

The edges cut into his fingers. His grip tightened; the pain felt like relief, like focus, like meditation. He must have stood like that a long time, for after a while a tentative hand touched his arm. “Garrus,” Tali’s voice floated to him, breaking through a fog. “Just let it be done, all right?”

Garrus looked up, flexing his mandibles in silence. The wall was so sterile, so monochrome, so still. Nothing like Shepard. She’d been vibrant and forceful and so hell-bent on living it hurt to remember. He shook his head and turned, dropping his arms to his sides.

“‘Nothing but meat and tubes.’ Isn’t that how Jacob so eloquently described her?” His voice sounded too loud. Nobody spoke. They were staring at their feet, at the walls, anywhere but at him. “She came back to us once already from beyond hell itself. As long as there’s a chance she might be out there — somewhere —” Garrus stopped, thinking of the alien planets eclipsing most of the sky, “— then this plaque stays in storage. I won’t have my girl coming back to a ship that gave up on her.” Ignoring their startled glances, he pushed through the group, stalking toward the elevator. To her room. To be close, as close as possible.


	3. Found

Unconscious. It felt good, like a womb, unborn. The other end of life. She’d been wallowing in it for what seemed like days. Hot pain would throb through her chest and legs, shocking her back to reality, and she would flee just as quickly back to dark safety. She dreamt a little, too. Good dreams, not like back on the Normandy. Curled against Garrus in her captain’s quarters, soft music playing in the background, stars swirling across the skylight above. God, but she’d lived one hell of a romantic life. She tried to smile. Her lip, dry and cracked, tore open, blood welling up to dribble along her chin. It was warm. She had blood left to bleed. That had to be a good sign.

Had to be. 

When the light first swept across her body, she thought it another dream. She’d had one where Anderson pulled the concrete rubble of some lost Citadel street from her knees. They’d laughed with relief. _We did it,_ they sighed, slinging arms round one another, hugging as tightly as they could without cracking more bones. She came out of that dream numb from the shins down. In another, the Illusive Man found her, his brains intact, and kicked her ribs. She’d shocked herself awake, coughing up globulets of blood and phlegm. In another, the Catalyst tried to pull her to her feet, but her hands were transparent, ethereal. They were just dreams, though. She knew the difference now, knew what she waited for.  

But the light swept over her again, a bright white beam, searching, passing. After a moment it jerked back, lingered. A shout. A chorus of shouts. And then the sound of scurrying, many feet, slipping over the rubble, tinny sounds of ringing metal kicked out of the way — 

“N7. It’s her. It’s her!” The voice was too loud, too near. She winced, gasping as the light glared into her one good eye. “Get me the medi-gel — the strong stuff! And the shuttle — we’re gonna need a shuttle, people! ASAP!” A shadow passed across the light. A man, kneeling. His hand was warm on her neck, gently probing, feeling for her heart. Heartbeat. Her heart was somewhere else, far away now, the Normandy. She hoped they could find her heart.

“Commander,” he said, voice gentle — it sounded nice, now that he wasn’t shouting — “we’re gonna take care of you, all right? You just hold on, now. Just rest.” He exhaled slowly; he’d been holding the breath too long. “Lord knows you’ve earned it.”

She cried out as hands lifted her, broken and charred, jostling bone fractures that had only just begun to knit together all wrong. “It’ll only hurt a little while longer,” the gentle voice soothed. Shepard melted into it. Her eye searched for the voice, caught his gaze. His own eyes were blue and watery, as though he might cry. “Take care of me?” she rasped. It was a question, a plea. He drew his lips together and blinked once, hard, then nodded.

“We've got you.”


	4. In Reverie

Liara paused a moment before knocking, taking a deep breath. She must compose herself. This was not going to be easy.

Garrus had been holed up in the captain’s quarters for over a week now. He barely ate. She didn’t know whether he slept, or if maybe that was all he did. An endless sleep sounded nice right about now; she couldn’t fault the man for that. But someone had to talk to him, to listen, the way the Commander had once listened to her. And no one else was volunteering. She exhaled, then knocked.

“Yeah, it’s open. Come in.” The turian’s voice was flat. He sat at the Commander’s desk, idly swiping through a datapad. “Hey, Liara. Just revisiting some old memories.” The asari caught a glimpse of the screen as he placed it on the desk: a paused vid, the Commander’s face caught in a rare grin, the turian’s lips pressed to her cheek.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Garrus. I thought… I thought you could use someone to talk to. I know I could,” she said. Her voice broke slightly at this last. She moved to the bed, taking a seat on the corner, then stared at her hands in her lap. They were silent, together.

“I loved her, too,” she whispered. “I know it — it wasn’t the same as with you two, but — she was my friend. The best I’ve ever had. That I will ever have.”

Garrus huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing a hand across his leg. “And you’re barely over a hundred. At least I can look forward to being put out of my misery before the next millennium.” He cleared his throat, blue eyes flickering up to meet hers. She wasn’t sure if turians expressed grief in the same manner as asari and humans, but they seemed raw, wet. “So… you haven’t heard anything, have you, Shadow Broker?”

A strained look stole over her features. Garrus grimaced. “No, I’m so sorry, Garrus. Communications are still haywire after the… after. I would let you know immediately if I had information to share.”

He sighed. “I know.” The only sound in the room was the aquarium, burbling against the far wall. 

“The fish are doing well.”

“I’ve been feeding them. Conditioning their water, giving them the  _ special _ flakes with the vitamins. She loved those damn things.” He shook his head, waving an arm in exasperation. “Seems like some kind of perverse joke, doesn’t it? That those stupid clownfish came through without a scratch, and our Shepard…”

“The universe is not a kind place, nor does it pretend to have a good sense of humor. And, to be fair, I do not see a single clownfish with N7 dogtags hung around its little neck.” Liara reached over and grasped his hand. “I could share my memories with you, if you like,” she offered quietly. “I have many pleasant moments to recall with her, and more than one that concern you. You made her very happy, Garrus. I want you to know that.”

“Can we not refer to her in the past tense, please? She could still be out there, you know.” His mandibles flexed in aggravation. Liara hadn’t focused on turian body language in any of her studies, but she thought it was a reflex perhaps akin to clenching one’s teeth. She squeezed his hand, still in hers.

“She’s out there, Garrus, but you cannot cling to a hope that does not exist. She is gone.” He pulled his hand away. “The sooner you come to accept that, the sooner you can begin to heal.” 

“Yeah, Liara. I hear you. I hear all of you.” He spun the chair around, turning his back to her, and picked up the datapad. “Listen, I appreciate the offer. I really do. I’ll probably even take you up on it sometime. But right now, I just need a little time with my own memories.”

Liara stood. “I understand. And Garrus, the moment I hear anything — good, bad, or neutral — I swear to you, I’ll let you know.” The turian nodded without turning back. Liara waited another moment, then made her way out. Behind her, Garrus resumed the vid. Shepard’s voice floated on the air behind her. “I’ll give you something to calibrate —”, then a peal of laughter. Liara’s eyes burned as she stepped into the elevator.


	5. In Recovery

The asynchronistic beeping of a dozen different machines created a sort of symphony. It was bothersome; she found herself constantly seeking patterns in the disjointed rhythms, searching for a song, encountering chaos. 

Blackness had enveloped her following her rescue from the Citadel. Shepard awoke to a remarkably sterile and intact hospital room, endless wires and tubes sprouting from her veins. Piece by piece, memories floated back to her: Anderson’s slumped form, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, still. Pulling herself forward, step- _lurch_ -step- _stumble,_ toward the power conduit. Aiming the pistol — pivoting, aiming it at the child, barrel wavering, trembling on the trigger — pivoting again, firing at the conduit. Missing. Firing. Missing. Firing. Contact, the glass cracking, the crack widening — then the explosion. The gentle-voiced man from SAR, smoothing her hair back from her temple in the emergency shuttle, the slight tremble of his fingers against her scalp. Bright white lights that stung, metallic flashes from a dozen medical tools converging upon her leaking body.

“How many years has it been this time?” she’d questioned the nurse upon awakening, catching at his sleeve with her functioning arm. He looked confused, then patted her hand. “Close your eyes and rest, dear,” he’d said kindly, slipping a needle into the soft flesh of her forearm. It pinched for a second, then warmth flooded through her. It was another three days before she remembered to ask again.

She was in Seattle, at a research hospital operated by the university. Though a large city in its own right, it had come through the war relatively unscathed. The Reapers had focused on more densely populated areas nearby: Vancouver to the north, then southward down the California coastline. With most of their academic rivals nothing more than crumbling ruins and decaying husks, this facility now led the field in cybernetics. Admiral Hackett had her sent here after the Alliance SAR teams pulled what was left of her from the Citadel. It was where she needed to be, given the smoking wreckage that was now her body. Her Cerberus implants had been fried as effectively as the mass relays; the parts of her that moved her hips, the tendons in her wrist, the muscles that controlled her left eye, all of it and more were now useless dead weight, expired tech woven into her blood and tissue. It was a miracle she’d survived, but then — here the doctors would smile at one another, as though sharing a private joke — everything she’d done had been miraculous.

The hospital psychiatrist had a mandate to visit her daily, a routine she suspected Hackett had a hand in. The Admiral himself had visited her once in the three weeks she’d been out of the coma, several times in the long weeks before. It had been a grim reunion, one she wasn’t eager to relive anytime soon.

“Commander,” he’d cried fondly, striding into her hospital room. His voice was as strong and sure as ever. “God, but it’s damn good to see you. Forgive the lack of faith, but we were sure you’d given up the ghost with this one.”

Her throat was dry from medication and hoarse from disuse; she had no desire to converse. But he was her Admiral, and she had never been one to break the chain of command. “Admiral,” she began, then swallowed with difficulty. “Glad to see you made it out alive. How did —”

Hackett held up a hand. “Save your energy, Shepard,” he cautioned, “Doc briefed me on your condition. Best if you just listen. I know you have questions. I’ll answer from the beginning, as best I can.” He settled into the chair beside the hospital cot, leaning an elbow on his knee and heaving a sigh. “Whatever you did up there to arm the Crucible had quite the effect. Helluva blast — looked like a star gone supernova. We gave the evac order and every ship in the fleet warped a retreat.

“We watched our mass relay wink out like a candle, sure we were going the way of Aratoht. Made peace with our gods as we watched that orange wave roll closer. Then reports started flooding in from the troops on the ground. The machines were dropping like flies. Men fighting for their lives a moment before suddenly had no enemy to speak of. It's like you flipped a switch. The war… you won it, Shepard. You won it for all of us.”

Shepard frowned, though only her right eyebrow acquiesced. “Sir, Anderson was right there with me. And my crew —”

“There’s glory enough to go around, Commander. Don’t shrug off what you’ve earned. That’s not to say there hasn’t been… fallout, of sorts. Looks like most of our advanced tech was overloaded in the blast. Everything from comm buoys with VI-assisted nav to our goddamned ship drives. Feels like we’re in the Stone Age again, relying on tech from back before the First Contact War. Makes for slow travel, and hopping star systems in an instant is a thing of the past.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “And there’ve been a few other reports of collateral coming in. Anyone alive, anything organic — that energy blast didn’t touch them, Shepard. Washed over ‘em like a flashlight, harmless. But then you get some regular folks who have just a few foreign parts. Older pacemakers were fine. Just a tiny generator and a few electrodes. But imagine you’re equipped with something slightly  _ more. _ A machine that interprets signals from your heart and your brain, anticipates an arrhythmia, corrects it before it happens.” Hackett halted again, giving it a moment to sink in. Shepard’s heart sunk with it. “Some people weren’t so lucky, and we’ll honor their sacrifice with our actions going forward. And I suppose it goes without saying, but we lost the entire geth fleet.” The Admiral heaved a sigh, rubbing a palm across his scarred cheek. “But we’re already rebuilding, Shepard. With the best and brightest from every world concentrated here in the Local cluster, we’re already getting the comm buoys back online. Hell, there’s a team surveying the damage to our relay as we speak. In a few years, life as we know it might just feel normal again.”

“Normal,” she repeated. “I guess wars have been fought for worse reasons than that.”

“Hell of a thing, normalcy. Feels like a curse until it’s ripped away from you, and then you have to snarl and fight like a dog who’s lost his bone to get it back.”

"How did you find me?" The Citadel had housed thirteen million individuals at its height. She was one comparatively small woman.

Hackett's face cracked with a wry grin. "The Protheans didn't invent infrared, Commander. Don't sell human technology too short. We've still got a few tricks up our sleeves, even without manipulating dark energy." The Admiral shrugged. "The dogs helped, too. There's not a lot that'll fool a bloodhound's nose, even in a disaster like that."

Shepard gazed down at her hands, listless in her lap. “Admiral, about the Normandy —”

The man harrumphed, gazing past her out the window. “That ship had more advanced tech than almost any other in the fleet, Commander.”

“She’s a good ship with an even better pilot, Hackett.” She twisted the pale blue stripes of the hospital blanket between two functional fingers, disrupting the pattern. Hackett reached over, covering her fretting hand with his own.

“Be that as it may, soldier,” he murmured, “We’re not all invincible like you. We tracked her until communications went belly-up. Last we know she was warping out of the system at FTL, trying to outrace the blast.”

Shepard nodded, joining her gaze to his. Outside, a tree swayed in the breeze. It seemed unreal that there were still trees.

“I don’t want you to have any illusions, Shepard. I won’t pretend this is easy. The AI ran everything on that ship. Navigation, communications. Life support.” He pulled his hand back and straightened his cap. “It doesn’t look good. We’ll make sure your crew gets a legendary memorial. They earned it.”

With difficulty Shepard turned, meeting his eyes. Her gaze was steel. “With all due respect, Admiral,” she said, “Keep your memorial. They're coming back.” She resumed her study of the tree, not hearing the susurrus of the door as he left.


	6. Debris & Hubris

For one of the most advanced ships in the Alliance fleet, the Normandy’s elevator had always been slow. With EDI gone, it moved like molasses on a cold Canadian morning. Kaidan’s fists clenched and unclenched as the floors ticked by. His body buzzed with pent-up energy, L2s reacting poorly to his agitation.

For almost a month now the Normandy had been flying blind. They’d relied heavily upon EDI for everything: navigation, communications, life support. The ship _functioned_ without her — Cerberus had the foresight to build a skeletal backup system in the event of virtual mutiny — but it was like going from a souped-up hovercycle to the antique ten-speeds you sometimes saw kids ride in the country back on Earth. The Normandy was sluggish, she was slow, and there were no functioning comm buoys to ping their location. Joker mapped their course like the sailors of old: by the stars and his own intuition.

The elevator doors hissed open. Kaidan had only been up to the captain’s quarters a few times. Twice for a game of chess, once to share a lager and a whiskey the Commander had charmed off some greasy batarian trader. He hadn’t been a resident on this new Normandy long, but he knew this was Shepard’s sanctuary. And now Garrus was here, filling her space, marking this territory. His fists clenched, relaxed, clenched, buzzed.

The turian reclined on Shepard’s bed, legs crossed, intently focused on a datapad held between his six fingers. Not long before London, Kaidan had walked in on them embracing in the battery. He remembered the look of those strange hands laying against the curve of her hip, how they caressed her waist like any human’s would. Like his had, once. His nails dug into his palms.

“What are you doing?”

Garrus looked up, surprised at the intrusion but unperturbed. “Just a little light reading,” he said, darkening the datapad and tossing it on the duvet. “A children’s story. Classical fiction from Earth, pre-First Contact. Shepard had her nose buried in it for weeks. I don’t think she ever finished.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and stretching. “Set in London, appropriately enough. Y’know, magic would have been _really_ handy against the Reapers.”

“Harry Potter.” Garrus nodded. Kaidan’s fists clenched again. “Yeah, I actually lent her the first book. Got it from Ashley’s kid sister, back in the day.” He shook his head. “But that’s not what I meant. What are you _doing,_ Garrus?”

Garrus raised a palm placatingly, sensing the threat in his words. “If you’ve got something on your mind, come out and say it, Major. Life’s too short for mysteries and intrigue. For turians, salarians, and humans, that is.”

“This was _her_ room.” His entire body hummed like a wasp’s nest. The migraine wouldn’t be far behind.

“It is. Your point?”

“You have no right to be here.”

“What, you would let the poor fish die?” He gestured at the aquarium. Kaidan eyed his hand, the way it moved. “I’m just keeping the place warm for her.”

“Dammit, she’s not coming back!” Something snapped. The energy trapped inside him strained to escape; a biotic pulse pushed outward, punctuating his words and rattling the model ships in their case. Kaidan had gone through this before, the hope, the impotent waiting. He couldn't do it again. He didn't have it in him. When he spoke his words were heated, rushed. “You hide up here like a king in his castle, guarding your treasure. But she wasn’t your princess to lock away in some tower, Vakarian. She belonged to _all_ of us.” He jabbed an angry thumb back at the elevator. “You don’t know what it’s been like down there. Nobody talks. All you hear is the ship humming, day in, day out. Nobody knows what to say. We need _closure._ We need a place for our Commander on this ship again, where she belongs. We need to hang that fucking plaque.” The grey rectangle of metal lay undisturbed on the desk, gathering what dust it could from the heavily filtered and recycled air.

Garrus stared into his eyes, mandibles flexing. “Now that’s where you’re dead wrong, Major.” He ran a hand along his crest, agitated. “She may have been our CO, but she was also _my_ girlfriend. I’m the closest thing she has to family — and I say that plaque stays right where it is until I see hard proof that she’s not coming back.”

“Great, so the rest of us have no say. I loved her, too. And you know what, I think there was a time when she loved me right back.” It was difficult to push the words out around the sudden lump in his throat.

“You loved her? That true, Alenko?” The turian’s mandibles spread wide. He stood, crossing his arms. He seemed even taller in close quarters. “So tell me: where were you, exactly, while we were battling the Collectors? Because I know where I was.”

A glow had begun to coalesce around him, but Kaidan no longer cared to rein it in. “She was working for the Illusive Man, for Christ’s sake. I think the history books will show who was right about _that_ decision.”

“You know, I’m glad you value being right above being happy. That worked out pretty well for me.”

“I spent _two years_ grieving her, loving her, only come to find out she was alive the whole time. Healthy. Strong. And cheating on me. With _you._ ” A wisp of violet power shadowed the finger he pointed into Garrus’ chest. “With a… a _bird_.” Somewhere deep below his boiled-over rage, a pang of guilt shot through him at the slur.

The turian’s features gathered into a dark frown, mandibles quivering dangerously. “What exactly do you think happened, Kaidan? That we hatched some intricate plot to ruin your life?” He threw up his arms, pacing. “I’ll _tell_ you what happened, because I was there. For all of it.” Kaidan glared, hands curling into balls at his sides, seething but silent. He'd always wondered.

“When Shepard found me, she was looking for Archangel. She didn’t know who that was. Thought he was some hot-shot, ego-boosted vigilante trying to make a name for himself on Omega. Well, she wasn’t wrong. The moment she recognized me after that firefight — I don’t know if you’ll understand this, but she sounded like... like the woman behind the soldier. Vulnerable, lonely, relieved to see a friend. Her eyes...” He stopped pacing a moment, his back to the biotic, shoulders low. “I’d never heard her like that before.” He continued. “Later on, she asked about you. The Admiral was no help, said you were off on some classified Alliance mission, busy. She kept a picture of you on her desk.

“And then there was Horizon.” The major stiffened. He knew what was coming. “I’ll skip the details; I can tell you remember. You know she actually cried on the shuttle back? Damnedest thing.”

The words stung, shame feeding his angry biotic aura. The final time he’d spoken to Shepard, he’d mentioned regrets; their argument on Horizon was among his life’s greatest. She'd practically begged him to come back with her and he'd pushed her away, turned his back. If only he'd known that would be the last time he'd ever feel the press of her arms, her chest soft against his — “You were on the same missions all those years ago. You _know_ what we found in those Cerberus labs, how they tortured people. What they did to Kahoku. Working with them — it was insanity. It was _wrong_.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. But I didn’t stay for Cerberus. I stayed because Shepard asked me to. And I don’t think there’s a damn thing in this galaxy I could deny her.” Turian faced human, defiant, eyes flashing in the shadows. “You know, when she first came to me, I told her to find someone else. Someone more… human, for lack of a better word. Someone whose legs bent the same way, someone she could share a damn milkshake with at the soda fountain. But she didn't want someone else. She wanted a friend, and you weren't there. I was.”

Anger coursed through Kaidan. The buzzing was getting intolerable, the migraine building to a crescendo behind his eyes. His chest heaved as he struggled to contain the biotic explosion that roiled below the surface. He remembered another time a turian had pushed him to breaking. That couldn’t happen again. “Just… give me… the plaque,” he spit through gritted teeth.

Garrus’ tone was casual, dismissive. The way his mandibles clicked seemed almost smug. “You’ll get it, Major. Over my dead avian body.”

An unintelligible cry tore from Kaidan’s lips. His arm swept out, a whip of violet energy lashing across the room. Garrus leapt backward, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there as the biotic rope crashed against the display case. It shattered, a glittering sheet of glass spraying the room with a mist of fine shards, carefully constructed model ships tumbling from their moorage to lay in a chaotic heap across the sofa and floor.

Garrus stood frozen, one hand hovering at his back where his rifle should be, the other shielding his face, eyes moving slowly from the mess of glass and ships to the biotic and back again. Kaidan was still, head lowered to chest, breathing shallow breaths, fists white-knuckled and quavering. A bead of sweat forged a trail from his temple to his chin. The intercom crackled to life.

“Uh… so… Everything all right up there, fellas?” Joker’s voice permeated the uneasy quiet of the room. “Stomp twice for yes, remain eerily silent for no.”

The turian eyed Kaidan, who met his gaze and nodded once, exhaling slowly. He stepped gingerly across the floor and pressed the intercom mic. “We’re good, Joker, just enjoying a rousing game of chess. Ended in a damn stalemate. Say, on an unrelated note, do you happen to know where they keep the vacuum in this place?”

“Try the storage bay on 4, I think Javik used it last. And Garrus, try to keep the random explosions to a minimum if you can. We’re already going to have to requisition Traynor a new pair of pants once we get back into Alliance space.” The intercom switched off abruptly, dead again.

Garrus moved to the bed and folded back the duvet, now dusted with sharp crystals. He sat, motioning for Kaidan to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.

“Guess I’m finally going to have to wash these,” Garrus remarked, brushing a few shards from the pillow. “I’d been holding off. They still... smell like her.” His voice was low, its strange, echoing undertone barely audible.

“God, you — you really love her, don’t you?” Kaidan scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t think I believed it until now.”

“It wasn’t _all_ wild, passionate sex. I mean, there was a lot of that, too.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry, that probably wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”

Kaidan shrugged and sighed. “It is what it is.”

“You know, after all this was over, I was going to propose.” Garrus went silent, lost in thought. “Read up on human customs, watched a few classic vids from Earth. Bought a ring and everything. I was so sure we’d meet again on the other side.” He shook his head softly, mandibles pulling tight against his face. “Take the plaque, Alenko. Where it’s gathering dust won’t make any difference in the end.”

“Nah, you keep it. I think I just disqualified myself from having an opinion.” Kaidan chuckled once, a half-smile touching his lips. “She really kept a picture of me, huh?”

“Oh, yes. A good one, too, very handsome. I tried to casually break it a few times. Never succeeded.” The major grinned at that.

“Hey, sorry for uh… this.” He gestured to the pillows, sparkling softly in the low light from the aquarium. “Hanging on to the little things, well, sometimes that’s all you can do to stay sane. I uh, didn’t mean to take that from you.”

“It’s all right. It was about time, anyway. Besides, her hamper’s full of dirty laundry if I really need a fix.” Kaidan blinked. “That was a joke.”

“Oh yeah, of course it was. Hey, let me help you clean up. Shepard’s gonna be pissed if the antiproton thrusters on the Normandy model are broken.”

“I won’t say no to that. I hate vacuuming.” Garrus eyed the major sidelong. “It... almost sounds like you believe she’s alive.”

There was a plea underneath his words. Kaidan remembered the last time Shepard died. How he’d obsessed over the news that first year, refusing to believe she was really gone. They hadn’t found a body, after all, and Shepard had a rich history of surviving impossible odds. How he’d spent the second year isolated, choosing to be alone or in the company of a bottle. How his one blind date had felt like a betrayal, how he’d slammed his glass on the bar and left without a word when his date suggested they go to her place. He measured Garrus a moment, deciding, then picked up the datapad. “Shepard stopped surprising me a long time ago. There's not a doubt in my mind she'll finish that book, even if you have to read it to her.”

Something seemed to lift from Garrus at his words, a tension or a weight. He sat straighter, held his head an iota higher. Inwardly, Kaidan cringed; had he just cursed his rival with hope, or blessed his friend? He reached over and pulled the wreckage of the Reaper model from the debris. Three of its tentacular legs were bent at an odd angle; two were missing completely. He snapped off a third. “At least one thing’s for sure — we can leave this one in pieces.”


	7. Erosion

“Tell me about Garrus.”

Shepard narrowed her good eye at the asari. “I’m still not convinced you won’t sell all my secrets to al-Jilani.”

The psychiatrist sighed, snapping the stylus back into her datapad. Half an hour in and this was going nowhere fast. “It is quite tiring to recite my credentials at every appointment, Shepard. You know I have the highest-security clearance the Alliance offers civilians. Do you distrust your people so readily?”

“Still calling me Shepard? Jesus. Not even my shrink wants to use my real name.”   
  
“Your file indicated Shepard was your preferred designation. Would you rather I call you something else?”

Shepard shook her head imperceptibly. The tree outside was still today, drooping sadly, leaves spattered by the relentless Seattle rain. “No, Shepard’s done me just fine ‘til now.” Only one person used her first name regularly, and she liked it that way. She closed her eye, imagining how he would lean close, murmuring the word against her neck. Maybe she would never hear that name again, but at least she'd always remember how it sounded coming from his lips last.

“You seem reluctant to discuss your friend. Is there a reason for that?”

One hand, the weak hand, lay prone on her abdomen. It had fallen there by happenstance, but the fingers were curled gracefully around the slight round curve of her belly; months of lying immobile in the hospital bed hadn’t been particularly kind to her six-pack. It was an unconscious gesture, the protective caress of an expectant mother. She didn’t know if she even had a real womb anymore, though. Ovaries. Eggs. Had Cerberus remembered to rebuild that part of her? 

Shepard’s chin quivered involuntarily as she replied. “No.” The asari unsnapped her stylus, made a note.

“I understand you two were involved. A turian and a human — rare, indeed. Did you love him?”

She snapped her head around and winced at the sharp jolt of pain that coursed through her neck. The new spinal implants were still swollen; it was painful to move too quickly. “What kind of question is that?”

“It can be restorative to reflect, to reminisce about—”

“ _Did _ I love him. Like I could stop, just because he’s—” The Commander bit her tongue hastily. She’d held out this long; she wouldn’t give in to this blue terrorist’s demands that easily. She’d always despised therapists, preferring to work things out on her own or in one-on-ones with a trusted crew member. Strangers pretending they cared for credits. It was a racket, and she wouldn’t give in.

“Loss is a terrible thing. It often uncovers beautiful truths, however.”

Shepard screwed her face into an incredulous frown, crumpling the blanket around her abdomen with her weakened fingers. “Cut the crap, doctor. You know nothing of what I’ve lost. There’s not a beautiful thing about it.”

“Then tell me.” The asari’s patience was maddening. 

“I—” Shepard began another protest, but her lower lip began to tremble violently, like a child on the verge of a breakdown. She caught it between her teeth and held it, hoping the doctor hadn’t noticed. She shouldn’t have said anything. His breath warm against her cheek, his hands firmly about her waist, grounding her— 

“Tell me about him,” the doctor encouraged gently. Inside, she wanted to scream; weeks of daily sessions, and this was the closest she’d gotten to invoking a conversation with any depth. The most famous human in the galaxy was, coincidentally, also the most stubborn.

The woman in the hospital bed sunk her face into her palm, dragging it down her cheek tiredly. “You’re relentless.” She glared back at the doctor. “Fine. You win. I’ll tell you about Garrus. What do you want to know?” It took all her concentration to keep her voice flat, free of the quaver that threatened to break through.

She settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, apparently comfortable now that Shepard had lost. “Well, I’m a sucker for a good romance. How did you fall in love?”

“So you’re just here to get your jollies. I see how it is.” She'd thought to give some smart-ass answer, maybe the plot to _Fleet and Flotilla_. But suddenly she was back on Omega, all red neon and dank puddles, hurtling across the bridge under heavy fire. For some big-shot rogue, that Archangel sure had shit aim. Barely grazed her shoulder sniping at decent range. She'd fought her way into the apartment, flanked by two near-strangers she didn’t trust to watch her blind spot, trailed by mechs and mercs, hauled herself up the stairs two at a time — and stumbled to a stop. 

There he was. 

Leaning confidently against a table, arms crossed, blue eyes twinkling. She dropped her gun like she didn’t know any better, crossing the room in three long paces. Threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his cold armor, hiding the glint of her suddenly wet eyes. It caught him off-guard; after all, they’d barely shaken hands during his first tour with the Normandy, the Commander notorious for her quite literal hands-off approach. She didn’t dance and she didn’t hug. That was the way of it.

After a moment Garrus returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her smaller frame. “Hey, Shepard,” he’d murmured gently into the top of her head. God, it had been so good to hear his voice. Something about how her name echoed across his tongue, the way his arms enveloped her, firm and sure and soft… It had sent a warm thrill through her abdomen; she’d brushed it off as nerves. They’d held each other too long for being in the middle of a warzone; Miranda had cleared her throat awkwardly, while Jacob studied a nearby houseplant with intensity. That was a turning point, sure, but… Shepard struggled, trying to pinpoint a moment, an answer to an impossible question.

_ He kept me safe.  _ “He… had reach.” They weren’t the words she’d meant to say, but they were almost better. An inside joke. She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling an insane giggle bubbling its way up her throat.

The asari frowned. “Reach?”

“Yeah. You ever woken up next to a turian, doc? Believe me, you gotta try it at least once before you die.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, struggling. “I made that mistake once already—” Her shoulders began to shake with effort; a strangled yelp escaped from between her fingers.

The doctor sighed, uncrossing her legs, then stood. “I’ll be back the same time tomorrow, Shepard. Thank you for the… progress.” She stalked out with a species of annoyed grace that only an asari matron could muster.

Shepard’s body trembled a while longer after she left, a leaf battered by heavy raindrops, her palm slipping across wet cheeks, her breath catching in staccato gasps that mimicked laughter.

* * *

 

Down the hallway, the asari hung a left, turning the corner into the surgeon’s private office.

“Well?” The salarian doctor prompted her, wasting neither words nor time. The psychiatrist tapped the stylus against her datapad thoughtfully.

“Still depressed. Deeply so. Refusing both medicated treatment and traditional therapy. That woman,” she stated, her mouth tightening into a line, “is stubborn as hell.”

“Hmm. Our replacement implants should be just as good, if not higher quality, than the originals. Their decline in efficacy correlates with the patient’s emotional decay.” He closed his round eyes and pursed his lips, concentrating. “It would seem Chakwas came to a compelling conclusion. Positivity of mood and peacefulness of spirit is integral to the cybernetic integration and healing process.”

“She  _ refuses _ to talk to me. In three hundred years, I’ve never had a more obstinate patient.” A note of despair crept into the normally calm asari’s voice.

“Find a way, doctor. She’s deteriorating, and rapidly. We’ll have to equip her with a mechanical ventilator until bio finishes growing that lung, and I’m entertaining several doubts as to whether she’ll even… last that long.” The uncharacteristic pause underlined the salarian’s growing concern.

“I don’t know what else to do, short of ordering a hundred Alliance frigates to comb the whole damn galaxy for that ship.” She made a frustrated noise, frowning deeply. “We almost had a breakthrough, but it’s becoming clearer day by day that she doesn’t  _ want _ to survive. Not without her crew.”

“We have orders to keep her alive at all costs. And those orders come from the organization that funds our research grants, which fund our research, which supports our sterling reputation, which funds our  _ paychecks. _ Find a way,” the surgeon repeated, then turned his back. The conversation — lecture, more like — was over. Irritation colored the asari’s cheeks a deep violet; she was not used to failure, or being spoken to like a child. Somehow, despite their short lifespans, salarians always had a way of making her feel as foolish as a maiden taking her first spin around a pole.

_ Find a way. _ She thought of Shepard’s ashen cheeks, the clouds behind her eyes, the bitter flavor to her words. For the first time in her long and illustrious career, the asari doctor felt defeated. It would seem that without her crew, without her ship, without this Vakarian, there would be no more Shepard.


	8. First Contact

The ship was quiet. Joker had forgotten what it was like to fly with a silent partner. He missed the Normandy’s voice. It _had_ been pretty sexy, after all. Even Traynor thought so. He missed having a second pair of eyes, or optical sensors, or whatever. He missed making jokes in the cockpit, not feeling lonely. He missed cruise control.

He missed EDI.

Muscle memory lingered in his glass body, guiding him as he flew a ship he hadn’t fully  _ flown _ in over three years. EDI had taken over a role he hadn’t known he needed until she was gone. He was glad Shepard convinced him to dance with her at the apartment party so long ago. It had made her happy. They would never dance together again, not through the stars or on the floor of Purgatory.

The mass relays were long gone, at least as far as functionality went.  _ That _ came as a fun surprise after trudging halfway across the star system in search of one. It seemed mostly intact, but the glow of its energy had been wholly extinguished. The trek back to the Sol system was painfully slow, made all the more difficult by the lack of reliable tech. Seems like whatever the Crucible had done, it wasn’t kind to anything based heavily on Reaper technology. Which, when you thought about it, was pretty much all the good tech post-First Contact War.

Joker sighed. Strange. Everything could change, and it was still the same as it was before.

They were nearing the outer reaches of the Local Cluster when the comm channel crackled to life. Joker jumped, smacking his knee on the underside of the controls so hard it had to have earned a hairline fracture. His fingers came to life, tapping and sliding and twisting across the screens with an energy all their own.

“This is the SSV Normandy. I can’t read you, it’s not clear. Think the buoys are still throwing their monumental temper tantrum. Do you read me? I repeat, do you read me?” Joker’s voice had largely been in disuse since the memorial on the nameless jungle planet they crashed on post-Crucible; he was surprised to hear himself so frantic. Usually he thought he sounded pretty cool.

“— is — ad —  _ zzt _ — read me?” The voice on the other end was unintelligible, but it was a voice, goddammit. After months of radio silence, Joker would have welcomed just about any voice from out there in the black. Even from one of those creepy-ass corpses the rachni queen liked to use.

“Uh, nope, I do  _ not _ read you. Sorry about that. But hell, is it ever good to hear your voice, whoever you are.” Joker tapped a few more buttons and twisted one screen with a flourish, but to no avail. The channel remained open, but the static overwhelmed any discernible language. “I  _ really _ hope you’re not telling me the Reapers won and we’re all about to be made into Fish Dog Food snacks. Keep tryin’, buddy, I’ll keep the channels clear in case it works. SSV Normandy over and out.”

Sliding over a new screen, Joker tapped the ship-wide comm button. “Guys, you’re never gonna believe this. We have made contact. I repeat, we have made contact. Looks like they've begun to repair some of the comm buoys in this system. Can’t make out a damn word, but somebody’s alive out there. We won’t have to repopulate the human — er, turian — asari — uh, pressure’s off!”

His heart thumped beneath his uniform. He felt drunk. Since EDI, he hadn’t thought he could feel this way again. Excited. Hopeful. Less scared than he’d been in months.


	9. A Favor

Garrus leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, wiping his clammy palms on the fabric of his pants. The shutter was open and an endless array of stars spread out before him into the blackness. He’d spent most of his life in the sky, and that darkness had always felt a little bit like home. But then the message had come through. Now it was overwhelming, an unknown.

The door hissed open behind him. He recognized the pattern of Liara’s soft footsteps, heard the light tapping of her omnitool as she locked them inside the port observation deck.

“Hey, you kids know the rules: no locked doors when mom’s not home.” Joker’s voice buzzed through the intercom. He was keenly aware of everything that went on in the ship, now that it relied on him utterly.

“Joker, may we have some privacy, please?” It was about as impolite as Liara ever got. Garrus tried a different tactic.

“Beat it, Moreau, we’re busy.”

“Oooooooh.” The pilot tsked. “I’m telling the Commander once we get back to Earth.” Joker had been chipper since making contact, acting more like his old self than he had since the crash.

“Muting the intercom now, Joker. Bye-bye.” Garrus waved at Liara to do the deed, then settled back against the cushions, gazing out at the limitless black. Thing was, he wasn’t sure if this was right. It felt like a betrayal. Liara joined him on the couch, close enough for her knee to bump against his.

“Should we be doing this, Liara? It… It doesn’t feel right.” His mandibles quivered slightly with nervousness. She placed a soft hand on his leg reassuringly.

“I promise you, Garrus. Shepard was my dearest friend. She wouldn’t mind.” She sounded remarkably confident. He didn’t know why he was so plagued with doubts; despite his adamant stance against hanging the plaque, he wasn’t even sure Shepard was alive to care.

He sighed. “All right, if you say so. But if I get in trouble, I'm dragging you down with me." He rubbed his brow tiredly. "Well, how do we…?”

“Take my hand.” The asari extended her palms, taking his larger hands in hers, intertwining their fingers. Hers were warm and soft, just like he remembered Shepard’s. “Close your eyes. That’s it.” He cracked one disobediently; Liara’s face was uncomfortably close to his own, her delicate blue eyelids also closed. He could feel her breath puff against his lips, cool and light.

Then her eyes flew open, black as the space between the stars. _“Embrace eternity.”_


	10. Done

Shepard’s arms trembled, shaking with the effort of supporting her body as she made her way down the parallel bars. The implants in her spine weren’t healing right; she shouldn’t be able to feel them inside of her, pulling against her muscles, grinding against her vertebrae. There was a time when she could pull herself up a sheer cliff face in medium armor by her arms alone. Now she could barely manage five forward steps.

“Good, good,” encouraged the physical therapist, an Earth-born woman who had never been offworld by the sound of it. “That’s progress!”

 _“Progress?_  My wrists feel like they’re going to snap in two.” Shepard grunted, inching her toes forward for another step. “What have you people  _done_  to me?”

“We’re helping you get better, ma’am. But you have to do your part, too.” The woman’s voice held a note of reproach; likely she was more than fed up with Shepard’s whining. The Commander had never been one to complain. Hell, even just before the final battle in London she’d barely admitted she needed a nap. Garrus had taken her aside that night and steered her into bed early. He knew her well enough to understand what it meant when she breathed out  _fine_  and wouldn't meet his eyes. He'd fluffed her pillow, lowered the lights, and trailed his long fingers up and down her bare neck and back — lightly, just enough to coax out a few goosebumps, a reaction which had utterly fascinated him from first discovery — until she sighed that final relaxed sigh that signaled she was close to sleep, until she began to emit the soft, childlike mumbles that meant she'd fallen into a dream. She missed him suddenly, ferociously, grief and anger stabbing their razor edges through her heart.

Shepard sighed heavily. She bitched a lot these days.

Growling, she gripped the parallel bars with renewed vigor. She hadn’t gone this long without walking since before she knew how. Or at least since she was dead, if you felt like splitting hairs. Her body was alien to her now. Where before it had moved fluidly, adapting like riverwater to bends and curves and gravity, now it was a mudslide, all uncoordinated angles and sloppy debris and slow demolition. Her brain would supply a task —  _move your right foot forward_  — and the damn thing would shudder, twitch forward an inch, and then threaten to collapse under the merest weight. Very few things or people had ever disobeyed her command. It was the most frustrating thing she had ever experienced.

Hesitantly, like she was testing the ice on a frozen lake, Shepard toed the tile in front of her. It seemed to hold her weight; she went for it, heel to toe, foot flat on the floor.

It held. It held! Shepard leaned into it, putting her full weight behind it, unwittingly grinning from ear to ear. God, how pathetic, that it should feel so good to take  _one step._ Still smiling wildly, she twisted, turning to the physical therapist. “I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Do you see—” She cut off with a yelp. Her knee buckled, unused to any sort of pressure. She flung out her arms, trying to hook an elbow around the bar, grasping at anything solid with fingers that closed three-tenths of a second after she told them to—

—and fell hard against the tile.

The therapist sprung into action, kneeling beside her, hands outstretched. “Oh my God, oh ma’am, let me help you—”

“Get away from me!” The Commander shoved against the hands that sought to heave her up, weak but vicious. The implants in her spine screamed, tearing tiny rips in the surrounding muscles. She’d fallen with the brunt of her weight on her weaker elbow and she sunk into it, lowering herself to the floor. The tile was cold. She flattened her cheek to it, screwing her eye shut tight. In a sudden angry spasm she tore the supportive braces from her arms and lashed out, flinging them across the hallway. They clattered against the wall; several curious heads poked out of their respective rooms at the disturbance.

 _“Do my part._  I’ve done my part. I’ve done it. It’s  _done.”_ She spit the words into the ground. A wave of goosebumps rolled across her body. She curled in on herself, fetal, pressing her bare skin to the cool floor. The other woman made an exasperated noise, reaching for her again. “It’s done. Leave me the  _fuck_  alone.” Shepard’s voice was low, dangerous. She was weak as a kitten, but it was this voice that had caused Kai Leng to stumble, that had coaxed the Illusive Man into placing cold metal to forehead and kissing a bullet to his brain.

“I’ll…” The therapist floundered, unsure of what to say. Her hands spread in front of her, flexing uselessly. “I’ll tell the on-call doctor we need to dial back your bar time.” She backed away, white tennis shoes squeaking slightly, then turned and fled down the hall.

“Still got it.” Shepard didn’t smile. She lay there for a long while, sensing the temperature change as the waning evening sun faded into twilight, hearing the distant murmur of quotidian hospital goings-on slow. When she opened her eye, there were stars. She gazed at them, cheek to tile, knees curled to chest, blinking slowly. Her friends were out there, somewhere. Their bodies existed. Somewhere. She wondered if their souls were still in them, and if they could see the same stars.


	11. A Favor Continued

Garrus felt like his mind was being vacuumed through an airlock, so tight it hurt and then suddenly free. Sucked through a straw then released, molecules compact, crowded, then frighteningly loose. He thought he might stumble once released, but it was hard to stumble when you didn’t have a body. But then he  _did_ have a body, suddenly and startlingly, popping into existence in the black expanse where he now found himself. And he was alone, but then not — there was Liara, grasping his upper arm, hanging on like he was the only tangible thing in the world. Which, technically, he was.

He looked down at her, searching for the right question to ask —  _Where are we? What are we?_ — but stopped; her eyes shone wetly, some unknown light source magnified and bent to brightness by unspent tears. He curled an arm around his friend’s waist, hugging her close. “We don’t have to do this, Liara. We really don’t. Not if it makes you upset.”

She closed her eyes; the pale blue lids trembled, and Garrus wondered how they were strong enough to keep the deluge at bay. But if he’d learned anything from his time with Shepard, it was that just because a thing was soft didn’t mean it wasn’t strong.

“I’m fine, thank you. I believe I’ve found one you’ll appreciate. Are you ready?” Her voice was firm, her eyes still closed, holding no hint of the sorrow dammed behind them.

Something inside him quailed; he didn’t know how this worked. Would it feel real? Would it be like watching a vid? What if he couldn’t handle it, what if he couldn’t escape? He inhaled deeply. "Should we agree on some sort of safe word, or...?"

Liara just looked at him questioningly. He sighed.

“Yeah, I think I am. Let’s do this.” She nodded, and the blackness around them came to life.

_The Normandy. It looked different — lockers lined the walls, the med bay was darker, the equipment less advanced. Shepard leaned against a wall in the back room, arms crossed, a sheepish half-smile playing on her lips. “I don’t know. He’s just… really… manly. For not being a man, I mean. Or at least, a human man—”_

_A laugh. Liara’s. “Oh, Shepard. I would advise you to keep those thoughts private. I’m not sure the galaxy’s ready for turians and humans to reach that level of… diplomacy. Besides, I’ve seen the way Kaidan looks at you.” A teasing note colored her tone._

_Shepard’s eyes rolled, but she didn’t stop smiling. “Yeah, but he doesn’t have that voice…”_

The colors faded. Garrus shook his head, rubbing his brow to clear the fog. “Wait, she liked me back then?” Liara's lips curved secretively and she raised her eyebrows at him, saying nothing. “And you told her not to go for it?” The asari continued to smile, then closed her eyes again. “Get ready, Garrus. I’ve got another one.”

_“I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m certainly not complaining. Is this a business trip, Shepard? Or for pleasure?”_

_Shepard smiled, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Pleasure, mostly, but don’t tell my crew that. They think I’m here for intel.”_

_Liara cocked her head, intrigued. “You haven’t come to the foremost hub of clandestine intelligence in the galaxy for secrets? Why are you here, then?”_

_A rosy blush colored the human’s cheeks and she shrugged sheepishly. “Sometimes a girl just needs her best friend.”_

_“Ah. Boy trouble, I presume?” The asari motioned the woman to follow; they entered a side room, sinking onto a surprisingly plush sofa. Shepard crossed her legs comfortably, then whistled low. “Wow, Liara, you’ve really jazzed this place up. You can barely smell the yahg musk anymore.”_

_“Yes, well, it does get a little dull at times, and the extranet is right there… But we were talking about you, weren’t we? What happened? Is it Kaidan, have you two…?”_

_The blush deepened. Her mouth twisted with equal parts guilt and delight. “Noooo, not Kaidan…”_

_Liara gasped. “Shepard! I would never have guessed you’d be one to... play the field, as they say. Who, then? That Jacob fellow? I’ve come across a few of Kasumi’s private messages in my reports, they were full of… positive descriptions.”_

_Shepard made a face. “No! Jacob? No. He’s… boring.”_

_Liara huffed, frowning. “Then who…?” She gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. “No!”_

_The Commander grinned, leaning forward over her crossed legs and gripping the asari’s blue forearm, shaking it excitedly. “Ye-e-e-e-s!”_

_“Shepard!” Liara gasped again, scandalized. “Tell me everything. Who asked who?”_

_She plastered her hands to her face, peeking between her fingers. “Me. I walked into the battery and asked if he wanted any help… blowing off steam.”_

_“You didn’t.”_

_“Oh. Oh, I did.” Shepard smirked. “And it worked. Oh, Liara, he’s so—so—”_

_“Manly?” The asari raised a brow. Asari had excellent memories._

_“Well, I was going to say sensitive, but that too. Yes, definitely that.” She sighed, falling back against the arm of the couch, draping an arm across her eyes dramatically. “He is so good at cuddling. He just holds me, all night long.”_

_“I would never have suspected, even if I lived to become a matriarch. I mean, he’s so… spiky.” A devilish gleam entered Liara’s blue eyes. “And how is…?”_

_Shepard squeezed her eyes shut, holding in a delighted bubble of laughter. “Um, a little awkward, at first. But you know what they say: practice makes perfect.”_

“I’m not  _that_ spiky,” Garrus muttered, passing a hand across his eyes as the vision’s light ebbed. “Or that sensitive. Way to sully my hard-won bad-boy reputation, Shepard.”

Liara smiled, a little sadly. “It was sweet. She truly cared for you, Garrus.”

The turian cleared his throat, hoping to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed. "So. Just how much did she tell you?"

"Everything, of course."

“Is  _that_ why we were always setting course for Hagalaz back then? Shepard wasted a lot of fuel for a little girl talk.” But a warmth had blossomed inside; he was secretly pleased. It had been a very long time since he’d seen this side of his girlfriend: the tender self beneath the shell. Beside him Liara swooned where she stood, placing a hand to her temple. “You all right, Liara?”

“I’m… just a little tired, I’m sorry. This is a taxing exercise.”  
  
“We can stop—”

“No. I have one more that you need to see.” She leaned into him for support and he obliged, returning his arm to her waist. Colors slowly began to emanate from the black, then suddenly sprang to life. Another memory.

_Gunfire and the screams of men echoed from the alleyways. They stood in a crumbling building, a stoic victim of the Reaper bombardment. Shepard gazed at the dirty floor, her armor gleaming in the dull light, scuffing the concrete with a booted toe._

_Liara took one of her gloved hands. “My dear friend. This isn’t farewell.”_

_Shepard looked up, met her eyes. They were bright. “I wish we had time for one of our talks.” She half-smiled, eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheek. “Sit on your bed and just chat. Like old times.”_

_The asari petted the top of her friend’s hand comfortingly. “There are only the cots for the wounded, but I am always here to listen, Shepard. Even now.”_

_The Commander glanced back at the doorway through which she’d entered, gaze lingering. “I just said good—goodbye to Garrus—” Liara pulled her friend close, sensing her need. Shepard pressed her chin into the asari’s shoulder gratefully, muffling her voice. “He wants us to have a baby, Liara. A baby. Together. I didn’t know I wanted that, until…” Liara felt her laugh once into her shoulder. It was without joy. “You could be an auntie. Our baby would love you.”_

_“You would make a wonderful mother, my friend.” Liara smoothed a hand over the woman’s hair soothingly; she could feel the slight shaking in her bones. “And if you had a daughter, I can only imagine how her lovers might quake in their boots, facing a father like Garrus.”_

_Shepard laughed again, a real laugh this time. “You always know just what to say.”_

_“I try.” Liara met her eyes thoughtfully. “I have something for you, Shepard. A gift. It will only take a moment, if you want it...”_

Garrus was silent, mandibles flexing slowly. Liara stepped back and his arm dropped to his side, limp. Her voice was soft when she spoke, empathetic. “I’m sorry if that was painful for you, Garrus.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Inside, frustration seeded itself in his heart. How could he feel grief for a family he'd never started? “I’m, ah, I’m glad she had you, Liara. You were a good friend to her. She—she never had a lot of opportunity to be herself when she was being Commander Shepard to everyone else.”

Liara met his blue eyes with her own, wide, watery, and earnest. “You would be a very good father, Garrus. I sincerely hope fate gives you the chance.” She took his hand in her own, intertwined their fingers. “Let’s head back home.”


	12. Phone Home

“Kaidan, you free to take a call in the comm room?”

The Major jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of Joker’s voice into his meditations. “What, now?”

“Yes,  _ now. _ I’ve finally got Hackett on the line and I have no idea how long the channel will stay clear. You good or should I pass the baton to Vakarian?”

_ Not a chance. _ “Hackett? You got ahold of Hackett?” That meant actual intel — the situation on Earth, an answer to what happened with the Reapers, an answer about… the Commander. His heart skipped a beat at the thought. “Yeah, just—let me get some pants on and comb my hair, then I’ll be right there.”

“Pants. Right. Just make sure you wash your hands before logging in, okay?” The intercom when silent before Kaidan could offer a retort. He glared at the speaker, then, realizing the need for haste, sprang into action, tugging a pair of slacks over his bare legs and running a wet comb through his dark hair. He tucked his shirt in as he hurried from the crew’s quarters to communications, nodding at Private Campbell and Private Westmoreland as he passed through the war room. They snickered behind him; he hoped he’d remembered to zip his fly.

As it happened, there wasn’t much need to worry about appearances. The hologram was barely recognizable as Hackett, all blurry orange zigs and zags except, strangely, for his cap, which came through clear as day. You could even make out the Alliance insignia on the band. Kaidan ran a final hand through his hair anyway, just in case.

“Admiral? God, it’s good to—uh—see you.” Kaidan floundered at first; it felt like forever since he’d had to keep rank.

“Major Alenko. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to hear from the Normandy.” The Admiral’s gruff voice held a note of true gratitude. “Moreau updated me on your position. Sounds like you’ll be making it home sooner rather than later.”

“It’s kind of unbelievable, sir. We didn’t think we’d make it. It’s a miracle we weren’t too far outside the Local cluster when the blast caught up with us.” He hesitated, needing to ask his next question and hoping he could put it off indefinitely. “Did—has the—we still don’t know what happened, Admiral. This is the clearest comm link we’ve managed so far.”

The blurry lines shifted and the Admiral’s hat swiveled slightly as he adjusted it, sighing. “She did it, Major. She pulled it off. Only thing left of the Reapers is the mess they left behind. Shepard will be remembered as the greatest hero this galaxy has ever known.”

Kaidan’s heart stopped. His words caught in his throat before he could push them out. “Remembered, sir?”

“Ah, that’s right. You don’t know.” The Admiral had to be dragging this out from some sick sense of sadism. “She made it through, Alenko. She made it through.”   
  
Muscles Kaidan hadn’t known he had suddenly relaxed. She made it.  _ She made it. _ “Damn it, Admiral, that’s just—God. Everyone is going to be so relieved to hear that.”

The Admiral’s voice took on a warning tone. “You may not wish to share that information too freely. She’s not in good shape. Docs have given her a pretty short timeline, Major.”

“How long?” There was steel in his voice. There had to be. Otherwise it might break.

“Week and a half, maybe two. The Normandy’s on just about the same timeline. I don’t mean to get morbid, but I wouldn’t plan on any happy reunions. She’s in rough shape. Body’s rejecting all those damn cybernetics that’ve been keeping her alive the past couple years.” The Admiral’s voice was as rough as ever, but it held a note of sorrow. He wasn’t a soft-hearted man, but he’d known Shepard longer than any of them. He loved her too, in his own way.

“Have you told her we’re coming, Admiral?” His teeth were clenched. He wouldn’t accept that. Doctors weren’t infallible; they’d been wrong about his L2s, after all.

“I hadn’t planned on it.” The Admiral was silent a few seconds too long. “The doctors have advised against delivering any news that could be upsetting. Her heart depends on its own share of robotics.” 

“Tell her.” He grimaced; he had expected that she would’ve died, that the news would be wholly bad. It was almost worse, though, that there was a sliver of hope. That she might even die the day they touched ground. But he knew his Shepard, his Commander. He’d been by her side for years; he knew every curve her mouth could make, knew whether the crinkle at the corners of her eyes meant a good joke or a mission gone bad. “Admiral, tell her we’re coming home. Tell her… tell her Garrus Vakarian is waiting for her.” His heart wrenched in his chest, but he knew the truth. He'd lost her long ago, on that overcast afternoon on Horizon. All he could do now was offer the hope he knew she needed.

Hackett sighed, the erratic orange lines heaving upwards and then down. “I’ll think about it, Alenko, but only because I can’t imagine much could worsen the situation. Just don’t expect a miracle. I think she’s finally out.”

Kaidan closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “We’ll be ready, Admiral. And… thanks.” The hologram compressed into nothing, the channel closed. At his sides his fists clenched, relaxed, clenched again. She would live. She had to.


	13. Parallels

“Maybe you ought to stay in bed today, ma’am—”

“Shut up, Carrie.”

Shepard teetered on the edge of her bed, legs swinging freely, gathering her strength for the final push to the ground. She’d listened to the doctors’ recommendations in silence, seething, glowering at the half-circle of specialists telling her that her organs were laboring, that the prognosis wasn’t good, that she should save her strength and try to heal. There was very little in this galaxy that motivated her more than telling her she couldn’t do something, and the pity she could read in their eyes only stoked her irritation and resolve. Shepard had neither time nor patience for the twittering physical therapist fluttering her hands in front of her.

“We’re supposed to work on your fine motor skills today, finger exercises—”

“Out of my way, Carrie.” She slipped down, slapping her bare feet flat to the floor and wincing at the shock that traveled from her ankles to her knees and into her still-tender spine. Carrie pulled her mouth into a thin line, drawing resolve from the backbone she’d grown since their last session.

“I can’t let you do this, ma’am—”

“Ma’am me one more time, Carrie, and I will show you why they call me the Butcher of Torfan.” Carrie shrunk back, pressing her body against some medical equipment and knocking the blood pressure cuff onto the floor. She scrambled to retrieve it, grateful for the distraction. Shepard was an intimidating woman; the physical therapist dreaded the days she was assigned to this wing.

Shoulders slumped unevenly atop a bent back, Shepard inched slowly toward the parallel bars in the hall, grasping at whatever solid object she could for support. She’d walked this path before: on the cracking hull of the first Normandy, on the strangely beautiful seafloor of Despoina, across the body-strewn halls of the Citadel. She wouldn’t let this sterile room, this white-and-chrome hallway, this squeaky-clean linoleum tile be the path that won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next 7 or so chapters were so much fun to write; I grinned through every word. Thanks for sticking with this little tale so far, and I hope you like what's on the way. :]


	14. In the Air

The shuttle entered Earth's atmosphere with a shuddering jolt. Garrus’ stomach dropped at the sudden change in altitude, though it hadn’t been feeling all that sure moments before. He unhooked his visor, eyeing its various wires, fidgeting with the buttons. “Damn thing’s getting old,” he muttered, twisting a tiny dial on the side.

“Here, let me,” Tali offered, plucking the device from his hands before he could pull it away. She tapped a few buttons on her omnitool, scanning it. “Garrus, this is in perfect working order. I can’t find a thing wrong with it.”

Garrus pulled it back and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Hm.” The visor did several slow revolutions between his fingers, then several more. "Hm." Tali eyed first the visor, then the turian and back again. He was looking past the device at the floor between his knees. Maybe through the floor. Seated across from him, she leaned forward and cupped his hands between her own, stilling them.

“We’re almost there. She’s not going anywhere, you know.”

He met her glowing eyes with his own, piercing and blue. “You heard Alenko. They gave her a week.”

“They gave her two, and I’ve never seen Joker haul ass the way he did getting us back here.” Under normal circumstances Garrus would have chuckled at the quarian’s delicate accent awkwardly framing a curse word or two; as it was, he barely heard her. He slipped a hand out of her grasp and passed it along his crest a few times.

“Oh, for the love of God, she’s at a _research hospital,_ Garrus. All they care about is scrabbling from breakthrough to breakthrough and funding their next grant. They can barely work out where to stick a rectal thermometer in a salarian, much less offer a prognosis for a complicated case like Shepard’s.” Chakwas’ sardonic words rang out over the whirring of the shuttle’s engine, interrupting their exchange. “I know you’re very much the heartsick lover, writing sonnets and shaking your fist at the heavens, but please have a little faith. Shepard’s earned at least that much from us.”

The doctor’s conviction was heartening; she had a confidence that warned away gloom like Mordin's bug spray could repel Seeker swarms. Garrus hesitated only a moment before he nodded, tucking the visor away. It was more of a comfort item anyway. He didn’t need it for this mission; he was in civvies, after all. “You’re right, doctor. Sorry.”

Tali cocked her head, discomfited. “Where… where _does_ one place a rectal thermometer in a salarian?”

Chakwas turned to the quarian and raised an eyebrow. “Why, in the cloaca, of course.”

Cortez’s voice floated to them from the front of the shuttle. “T-minus twenty minutes before we dock in Seattle, folks. Hold onto your butts.”


	15. Civilian Disobedience

She swayed in place, one hand clinging to the edge of a privacy screen, then launched herself forward across the hall. Three feet seemed like three hundred as she lurched toward the parallel bars; in what proved a small miracle, her fingers obeyed and she caught a bar between two hands, stumbling to a stop. “Keeping all my teeth today,” she panted proudly, then slowly, excruciatingly ducked her body under a bar to insert herself between them.

Down the hall the double doors burst open. Two salarians and an asari in hospital scrubs marched toward her, their expressions grim and resolute. Shepard frowned, then turned to glare at Carrie, cowering near the door frame.

“You ratted me out?”

“I had to, ma’am, you’re not in good enough shape—”

“What did I tell you about ma’am-ing me?” Shepard said through gritted teeth, eyeing the troupe of physicians closing in on her. “Fine. Let them try it. I won’t go down without a fight.”

The doctors neared and slowed, one salarian crossing his arms. “Miss Shepard, come on now. You’re in no condition to—”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Shepard gripped each bar with one hand, all her concentration focused on staying upright, spine screaming with a sharp ache that echoed through every connected joint and bone. Out of all the feats she'd ever performed — all the near-misses, full-misses, acrobatic leaps, and lucky dives — this was proving the most difficult. The frustration was worse than the pain; she could take pain. Her body had never simply  _not worked_ before. It didn't matter that her muscles knew, down to their very molecules, how to twist and contract and stretch, didn't matter that power and strength sat latent in their meat and fiber. If they wouldn't obey, they were useless. And so was she.

The asari held out an open palm. “We admire your ambition, dear, but you really must—”

“Don’t _tell me_ what to _do.”_ Shepard’s anger flared, accompanying a biotic pulse that rattled the stethoscope at one salarian’s neck. He stilled it with a touch, then tried again.

“Now, you don’t want us to have to call security, do you? We want to settle this quietly, ma’am.”

“D-don’t call her that,” squeaked Carrie’s voice from the door frame. She clutched the wall, nervously eyeing the violet aura that had formed around the Commander.

Shepard clenched her teeth and shut her eye tight, inhaling for three counts, exhaling for three. “Just let me walk.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, ma’am. We’ve reassessed your condition from serious to critical.” The salarian turned his head and spoke low into his wrist. “We’ve got a code silver in the ICU.”

“Come on, sweetie, back to bed with you—” The asari’s fingers locked around Shepard’s wrist, attempting to pry it from the cool metal of the bar. The Commander’s aura pulsed again and the asari pulled her hand away as if shocked, eyes widening.

“With haste, if you don’t mind,” the salarian added into his wrist. Shepard glowered and inched her foot forward. She would take this goddamned step if it killed her. Hell, if it killed all of them.


	16. Almost There

The receptionist eyed the group with a bored glare. “Your request needs to be examined and ratified by the board. Commander Shepard’s case is under protection from the Alliance. Any changes to her approved recovery program require official review.”

Chakwas fixed him with an equally condescending stare. “Luckily for you, I’m about to make your job worlds easier, young man. As both an Alliance physician with level-three military security clearance _and_ as the Commander’s longtime personal doctor, I believe you’ll find that my credentials bypass the traditional review process.” She slid a thin data card across the reception desk with one finger, not breaking eye contact for a moment. The receptionist sighed.

“Take a seat, then. This may take several hours to process.” He turned the data card over in his hands slowly, inspecting it with distaste, then leisurely inserted it into his terminal. Garrus could wrap his talons around that soft, pliable human neck and choke him; the man was making this as hard as possible on purpose.

“Several hours? Please. This isn’t my first rodeo, dear. This should require fifteen minutes of your time, at most.” Chakwas was frowning now; a few strands of silver parted from her bob and she pushed them back behind her ear in irritation.

“Communication’s been spotty since the Reaper attack, ma’am. I have no way of knowing how long this will take.”

“You seemed to be having no difficulty placing your lunch order when we walked in.”

The turian crossed and uncrossed his arms, tapping his foot impatiently. Tali laid a hand on his elbow, sensing that something was about to give. “Another hour won’t hurt, Garrus, let’s sit—”

He shook off her touch gently but firmly and uncrossed his arms again, striding to the reception desk. “ICU’s in the west wing, right?” He’d interrupted some slow retort the man had been offering Chakwas; confused and suddenly confronted with a very tall turian rapping two very sharp-looking talons on his desk, the receptionist nodded.

“The Commander’s room number?”

“525, but—”

“Great, thanks. Hey, good luck getting this sorted, Chakwas. I’m going to go see my girlfriend now.” With that he turned, paused, surveyed the room with one finger thoughtfully tapping a mandible, spotted the _Elevators to West Wing_ sign, pointed at it with an exaggerated “A-ha!”, and stalked off.

“Garrus, wait! You can’t just…” Tali trailed off in defeat as the turian ignored her, shrugging with a sigh and falling into a well-worn waiting room chair. “No sense getting us both arrested. I’ll stay here and keep you company, Doctor.”

A half-smile played around Chakwas’ lips as she watched Garrus step into the elevator. “I appreciate that, Tali.”

The quarian rifled through a stack of paper magazines on the coffee table. “Can you ask him if they have any issues of _Popular Quantum Mechanics?”_

Behind the desk the receptionist was frantically jamming a button and chattering into a mic on his collar. “I’ve got a code gray headed to Five West, people. Hello? Why is no one responding? Hello?” He stabbed the button with his thumb twice more, as if sheer vehemence would summon help. “Are you guys napping in the on-call rooms again? What’s going _on?”_

Chakwas’ smile blossomed fully, a suspicion forming in her mind. “Oh, don’t worry about it, dear, I’m sure someone has it handled. Now, about my approval…”


	17. Grand Coup

Hospital security had extensive protocol on how to deal with bomb threats. Suicidal patients, inebriated medical staff, even the unlikely event of feral wildlife running amok through the halls — they had a plan for every mishap, it seemed.

Every mishap except an angry biotic.

The security staff spread in a wide half-circle around the Commander, each officer in various states of confusion. One hovered a hand near the taser at his belt but knew it would be career suicide to use it; they’d all been briefed many, many times on the dangers of using a taser on patients with new cybernetics. Another crouched low, arms held out at his sides, fingers wiggling aggressively, as though Shepard were a greased pig he were trying to catch at a country hoedown. Yet another kept creeping up behind her, intending to tackle her around the waist, no doubt, and she kept shoving him back with feeble pulses — enough to discourage, but not enough to harm.

“You people are freaks,” she panted, weak from exertion. “Just—let me—walk!”

“Settle down, ma'am, you’ll feel much better.” The salarian doctors were fearless; one spoke reasonable words at her, while the other flicked the air bubbles from a needle full of sedative, nonchalant. Shepard glared at them both, then shoved one foot forward in defiance.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the salarian with the needle tsked.

“Watch me,” Shepard dared, still looking daggers at them. But they weren’t watching her; their eyes were on the hallway behind her.

 

* * *

 

Garrus was beginning to have a thing against elevators.

He eyed the ceiling hatch as the numbers slowly dinged by. He could probably haul himself up the cable faster than the carriage was rising. It jolted to a stop on three and a squat nurse stepped on, sizing him up behind her thick glasses. He nodded at her politely, but his mandibles stretched in annoyance. She raised a potato chip to her mouth as the elevator began to move once more, still staring at him from the corner of her eyes.

Five. _Finally._ He practically burst through the doors as they slid open, the nurse behind him staring agape, potato chip mush cooling on her tongue. The hospital didn’t see many turians, and rarely did it see them in such haste.

The place was built like a maze. He could have wasted precious time staring at the map mounted on the sea-green wall, but the sound of shouting echoed from a hallway to his right. His mandibles flexed slowly. He knew. Deep down in his core, he knew. There was only one woman in the galaxy troublesome enough to cause a hospital security incident when she was supposed to be busy dying. The pit that had yawned in his stomach all week began to fill and close; his heart buoyed upward into his throat.

He turned right, long legs striding toward the commotion with more hope than he’d known in years.

 

* * *

 

Her elbow shook like a leaf, ready to give at any moment. A pale, white-knuckled hand clutched the bar, but it was sure to slip, slick as it was with nervous sweat. The biotic pulses were getting weaker, too; she was expending every ounce of her energy in pursuit of a stubborn goal.

But she would not let _this_ path defeat her.

The group inched closer, sensing her weakness, the salarian waggling the needle at her like a treat for a dog. She scowled and tried _throw,_ but her energy reserves were low; it was like being hit with a strong breeze. The damn creature had the gall to smile at her; she growled in response.

And then his eyes flickered behind her, widening. A frown passed over the face of the asari, and Carrie squeaked again, flattening herself even closer to the wall. Shepard was no fool; she knew the guard behind her was attempting another clumsy coup. One that, given the reactions of his fellows, might actually succeed. She gathered what energy she could. She wouldn't go down easy.

His hands slid easily around her waist. Using the last dregs of her strength she spun, sacrificing what unmolested muscles were left in her spine, and snarled, ready to unleash a nasty taste of her _lift_ — then stopped dead, face suddenly cold as the blood drained down into her stomach.

“Hey there, trouble. I’m happy to see you, too.”

That voice. She shivered to think of that voice, its rich dual tones, the purrs and growls of it, the things it had said to her, asked her to do.

Those tattoos. Blood-blue. She’d traced them so many times their paths were burned into her memory; she could draw them in her sleep.

The scars. She’d spent a long night in the Normandy’s med bay with those scars, silently watching as Dr. Chakwas dressed the bandages. When his torn mandible flexed he would whimper a strange, echoing whimper, sedated and asleep. She’d wished for a way to comfort him, hand straying to hover over his brow, but he wasn’t hers to touch. Keeping vigil was all she could do.

The eyes. Oh, the eyes. They’d watched her end a thousand lives, had watched her undress shyly, had watched her miss a shot they’d known she could easily make. Had closed, black lids trembling, as the mouth learned how to kiss her. She’d never thought to see those eyes again, but here they were, looking down into hers, drinking in the sight of her, moving ever so slightly back and forth, blinking, real.

Garrus.


	18. Once Upon a Time on Five West

Garrus was a man of details and intricacies. He knew the heft and weight of his rifle, knew its smooth curves and stark edges, knew it when it was in pieces and when it was whole. Knew how the trigger resisted his pull and how it surrendered. He had known Shepard once, intimately, he thought. Knew her smooth curves and stark edges, knew when she was broken and how to repair her. He thought he’d remembered the feel of her under his hands, but he was wrong. So, so wrong.

Part of it was that she’d changed. Places on her body that had been flat and hard when he last saw her were now rounded, yielding. She used to slip between his fingers like cold water; he could only hold her a moment before she was gone, carried away on duty’s swift current. Standing here now she felt solid, tangible; a tree, something growing roots.

More than anything else, though, he’d forgotten how damn _soft_ she was. It had been what struck him most that first night together, all those long months ago. He’d trailed a talon along her jawline then, their foreheads pressed together, and wondered at how she trusted her softness to all of his sharper parts.

Now he held her in his arms and marveled at the rediscovery. Under his hands her hospital gown was thin and light, and beneath that her skin, warm and overripe, easily bruised. He curled an arm about her waist, pulling her as close as he dared, afraid she might burst, as anxious and unsure as that first night. She buried her face in the cloth of his shirt, burrowing deep, as though he were the shell she sought to return to.

“How?” The word floated up to him, muffled so that he barely caught it. “How did you come back to me?”

His hand rubbed slow, small circles against her lower back, hospital gown bunching under his touch. “That’s a long, largely uneventful story. All exposition, zero climax. Terrible plot, to be perfectly honest. But, hey." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering, breath warm. When he spoke, she could feel his words vibrate through her, close and low and carrying heat. "Maybe we finally have time for long, boring stories.”

A palm crept up his chest, curling around one of his hard edges. She shook her head slowly, face still pressed into him. “Don’t tell me. That’s always when everything changes.”

Garrus furrowed his brow plates a moment, confused, then squeezed her as he realized what she meant. From somewhere deep in his throat came the barest hint of a growl. “Hey. You aren’t going to wake up, and neither am I. It’s real, Shepard. I’m here.”

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You say that, too.”

Garrus worked his throat uselessly before his dual-toned voice would obey. “I know you’re not feeling so hot, but I find myself inclined toward a few... romantic theatrics. Same protocols as last time, or...?”

Shepard lifted her face, his shirt damp where she had been leaning. She gazed up at him, one eye open and clear and the same endless black-brown he remembered, the other closed, swollen and a sickly shade of yellow, possibly blind. “If you could just hold me,” she started, but something broke within her before she could finish; it began with one trembling lower lip and quaked through her body in a wave, leaving her quivering with rhythmic precision, like a dog left out in the cold.

His heart swelled and he cradled her head to his chest, spreading his talons through her hair, swaying as he held her. He spoke into her hair, soft as ever, scented with the overly clean, clinical fragrance of the hospital soap. “My poor girl.”

 

* * *

 

Skulking the streets as a kid she’d always kept one hand in her pocket, fingers curled around a hilt. That plastic hilt seemed to hold its own heat, smooth, alive, a friendly curve against her palm. She slept clutching it like a teddy.

The recruits’ barracks had been coed. She’d walk the dark hall at night, avoiding the one loose floorboard, climbing the rungs to her bunk in socked feet to stifle their metallic echo. She had no hilt then — it was against regs — but she kept a violet ember kindled inside her, held in the dip between her breasts where she might clutch a teddy or a hilt, in other lifetimes.

After Torfan, she’d always walked alone. After she was jumped in the shower by a late Marine’s sister and a garrote, she walked with a new hilt strapped to her thigh.

Her flight paths with the Normandy led her to Saren, through the Omega 4, to London.

She’d never walked a path that ended in safety. She didn’t know what it felt like. But if she had to guess, it would feel like this: the taut muscles of two turian arms wrapped around her shivering frame, a pair of mandibles nuzzling against her cheek, an embrace that was perhaps the first home she would ever know.

She wondered when she'd wake up this time, and if her eyes would open to fluorescents or ash.


	19. Reacquaintance

When her legs gave out a few seconds later he was ready, sweeping her into his arms like a child. It was then that he finally tore his eyes from her and scanned the room, still populated with hospital staff in various modes of disarray and confusion. The salarian with the needle looked relieved; he advanced with a shake of the head and a grateful chuckle, still brandishing the syringe. Garrus frowned and turned his body, swinging his precious cargo out of the line of fire.

“You might as well holster that thing, doc. Does she look like she needs sedating?” In his arms, the Commander had succumbed to the weariness she’d fought viciously all afternoon, appearances be damned. Though she glowered at the hospital staff, it was a smug sort of glare; she’d made it to home base, safe and sound. Her arms slung limply around his neck, her cheek pressed to his chest. He gazed down at her fondly, mandibles flexing slightly. “All she needed was a good dose of vitamin G.”

The braver of the security guards stepped forward, clipping his taser to his belt and puffing his chest importantly. “Sir, we’re going to have to see some ID.”

Red tape. It seemed to follow him around like a vorcha on garbage day. “I’d grab my wallet, but my hands are full,” Garrus replied dryly.

“This wing of the ICU is a protected area, sir. You’re going to need Alliance clearance to remain. Plus,” the man added authoritatively, with a wag of his finger, “a special badge from reception.”

Garrus rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but the other salarian physician cut in. “And the way you’re holding her, there’s too much pressure on her spine—”

“Irreparable damage if it continues—”

“Find a way to put a damper on those biotics—”

“Sir, you’ll have to come with me—”

Flaring his mandibles in irritation, Garrus rolled his shoulders and pushed through the tightening crowd chattering around him. A slight, blonde woman in white tennis shoes cowered near the door to 525, staring up at him with eyes so round she could be half-salarian. “This her room?” he questioned her, and when she nodded weakly he strode past her toward the hospital cot. Shepard clutched at the fabric of his shirt as he laid her down, emitting something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

“Shh-shh-shh,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes and cupped her cheek. Warm. Rosy. There were so many nights he’d doubted, countless moments where he thought he’d never feel that warmth again. Her eye tracked him as he straightened, returning to the audience in the hall.

“You want identification? Credentials? I can do that.” The turian’s voice rang out with an uncharacteristic rumble; irritation had given way to a simmering anger, one that had been seeking an outlet for some time now. “My name is Garrus Vakarian. Ex C-Sec, spent some time on Omega under the name Archangel. Maybe you’ve heard of me, maybe you haven’t. But I know  _ all _ of you are familiar with a little ship called the Normandy. Know that its crew saved your asses more times than you can count.” A light of understanding winked on in a few of the eyes staring at him. Good. “I’ve served at this woman’s side for as long as I’ve known her. In all that time, only two things have kept me away.” He paused for dramatic effect. It seemed to be working; several security guards were staring with mouths slightly agape. “The first time, she was dead for two years. The second, our ship was blasted out of the solar system, crash-landed on an unidentified planet with only the emergency systems intact, and lost in the black for over four months without nav or comm support as we made our way back to her.” He folded his arms across his chest, surveying the now-silent room. “If you can beat that, you can tell me to leave my girlfriend here, alone, with a dozen doctors and security guards who can’t even tuck her into bed. Or you could try to use those cattle prods on me.” Garrus gestured, looking pointedly at one security guard whose fingers were creeping toward his belt. “But that won’t end well. For you,” he added, to clarify.

Not waiting for permission, Garrus turned and punched the door pad with the side of his fist, hearing the satisfying  _ hiss-click _ of it shutting behind him. He seated himself on the edge of Shepard’s bed, lifting her hand and tracing her fingers with his. She had so many. He’d never imagined life would lead him to love a creature so strange.

“My boyfriend’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble,” she said in a sing-song voice, eyes closed, cracking a smile.

“What’s that from?” His heart filled, threatened to overflow. That smile, that voice.

“Old, very old Earth song. Don’t worry about it.” She looked wan, tired, and the skin around her eyes was tight.

“Hey. You in pain?” he asked softly, holding her face with one taloned hand.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Tell the truth, Shepard.” He brushed a thumb along the apple of her cheek; she leaned into it, feline.

“Okay. But only for you.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t have used my biotics. I feel like throwing up.”

Without skipping a beat Garrus reached over, pulled a kidney-shaped metal pan from a nearby shelf, and placed it on her stomach. “And?”

“And…” She frowned, looking a little guilty. “And I hate Carrie.”

“Carrie?”

“The blonde.”

“Aw. Was she mean to you?”

“Yes. She kept calling me ‘ma’am.’” Shepard’s frown deepened. Garrus wanted to laugh; if he didn’t know better, he’d say she was  _ enjoying _ her moment of petulance. This was a side of the woman rarely seen; the long years of fighting enemy after impossible enemy had kept her stretched tight, gravid with responsibility, with no room to complain. Hating Carrie was healthy. Unfair? Maybe. Verging on schoolyard bullying? Definitely. But healthy, all the same. He leaned down, nuzzling against her warm neck, mandibles tickling as he kissed her. “Unacceptable,” he purred, voice low.  _ “Nobody _ calls  _ my _ girlfriend ma’am. Nobody.” She made a small, pleased sound that sent a thrill through him and he shifted, leaning closer.

She gasped suddenly and Garrus straightened, concern written across his features. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”

Shepard sucked air through her clenched teeth. “No, not you—my back, I shouldn’t’ve—” She released her breath in an aggravated puff. “They say I’m  _ dying, _ you know.” She infused her words with a sarcastic pitch, but Garrus knew her tells: the quirk of her mouth, the sidelong glance away as she spoke. She was afraid. Cold fingers curled around his heart, squeezing like a vice. 

“You’re not dying.” He said it because he should say it, because he was always the one to say it, the confident optimism to her pessimism and doubt. But his voice felt like it came from somewhere outside of himself.

“They can’t fix me.” Her voice had begun to quaver. She dropped the bluff. “These goddamn robotics are failing.”

Garrus lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. She looked like she’d lost a round in the varren pits of Tuchanka. Her left eye was swollen, shut tight, the muscles around her eye and brow unresponsive. Raw scars purpled across her temple and through the thin skin below her eye where the optical implant had been removed and replaced. Protective frustration surged through him; she was as soft and vulnerable as a damn varren pup. He could name ten levo-amino fruits that were firmer than the squishy human chin between his fingers. “It’s okay to be afraid.” The chin started to quiver; he stroked it gently. “It’s okay to ask for help.” He felt her heartbeat pulsing deep and slow below the paper-thin skin of her throat. “It’s not okay to give up.”

The turian had witnessed a few of the strangest sights the galaxy had to offer: a massive thresher maw strangling a Reaper; the return of krogan fertility; an actual living Prothean. None of it, however, had prepared him to see Commander Shepard’s lower lip jut forward unwittingly; to watch a fat tear well from the corner of her eye and forge a trail down the curve of her cheek, looking for all the world like a lost human child. “But it’s all breaking inside me.” 

Turians weren’t as prone to leakage as humans, but Garrus understood what this particular behavior meant. He brushed the tear away with a thumb, lightly traced the edge of the rogue lip. “You’re very good at doing everything yourself.” He swallowed, thinking of the ring buried deep in his luggage back on the Normandy. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to make a fool of himself by miming yet another strange human custom. “But I came back to make sure you’d never have to go it alone again.”

“Garrus,” and this time it came out almost like a warning, and her fingers caught at his, held them still, “they can’t fix me.” Their eyes met, black-brown to ice blue, measuring one another, a silent battle of resolve.

“No,  _ they _ can’t fix you.” A voice, at once confident and sarcastic, dignified and warm, rang from the doorway, interrupting the unspoken tug-of-war. “But your new doctor certainly can.”


	20. A Paragon Action a Day

“Hackett forwarded me your files over a week ago, Commander. I’ve been familiarizing myself with your case.” Chakwas perched on the edge of Shepard’s cot, legs crossed, Garrus relegated to the bedside chair. “Do you remember how nicely your scars healed after Cerberus butchered your beautiful porcelain skin? This is very similar, except that the wounds we need to heal now are on your lungs, your heart, your spine, your… Well, you get the picture.”

“Porcelain? I wouldn’t go that far. Sixteen was an awkward year for me.” Ten minutes with the doctor’s easy confidence and all of Shepard’s leaks had been neatly plugged, her mood visibly improved. There was nothing in the galaxy quite like a doctor with a good bedside manner to convince you that you might live, after all.

“So what you’re saying is, we need to make sure our broody Commander smiles every once in a while to keep the gears turning?” The turian raised an impish brow plate as Shepard shot him a glare.

“More or less. Peaceful thoughts and compassionate actions, Commander. Doctor’s orders.”

Shepard’s face scrunched in sudden disappointment. “Does that mean—”

“Yes. You have to be nice to the physical therapist.”

She groaned. “Carrie,” she muttered darkly, a promise of revenge echoing beneath her words.

“Shepard.”

The Commander glared, saying nothing.

“Hmm. Well, if it’s a matter of keeping you happy, I’m sure I can find a few ways to contribute.” The turian equivalent of a devilish grin appeared on Garrus’ face; it involved some intricate flexing of the mandibles and a flash of sharp teeth. Chakwas wagged a warning finger.

“Ah, ah, ah. Keep it in your plates, Vakarian. You may be as eager as a teen on prom night, but your lady-love is still looking forward to months of recovery.”

“Chakwas, you wound me. That’s not what I meant at all.” But he cleared his throat uncomfortably, a metallic blue sheen creeping up the edges of his face-plates.

The doctor eyed him deviously. “I can recommend a few exercises and therapeutic vids if you find yourself with excess… energy. They’re a bit clinical, but they seem to work in a pinch.”

“I-I’m just fine, doctor, I—let’s just focus on Shepard.” The turian shifted uncomfortably in the slightly-too-small hospital chair, crossing and recrossing his legs. A sudden soft knock sounded at the door and it slid open with a hiss.

“Should I come back another time? It sounds like you guys are—oh, Shepard!” Tali's violet silhouette materialized in the doorway, a rare print issue of _Popular Quantum Mechanics_ clutched to her chest. Upon noticing the conscious and happily chuckling Commander, the quarian flew to her side, clasping her hands.

“My favorite quarian,” Shepard laughed, surprised. It had never felt better to peer uncertainly into that shadowy violet faceplate.

“You’re here, you’re awake, you—oh, Shepard, oh, it’s so good to see you!” Tali pushed her way between the doctor and the turian, usurping prime real estate on the hospital cot. “Keelah se’lai, but we weren’t sure you’d make it! When Hackett told us—”

Shepard stopped her short. “Hold up a second. Hackett? He... he contacted you?” Confused, she looked to the doctor. “Wait. Didn’t you mention he sent you my files?”

“Oh, yes, we finally made contact with the Alliance a little over a week ago, Kaidan spoke to him via holo, though I guess it was a little grainy—he told him to tell you we were coming, so that you’d hold on—we’d heard the prognosis, you see, and everyone was so worried—” Her words overflowed in a jumbled stream, the music of her accent rhythmic and lovely. Not lovely enough to chase away the storm that had gathered on Shepard’s face, however.

“He _knew?”_ Shepard’s words were pure venom. “He knew over a week ago that you were coming, and he didn’t tell me?”

“Oh, keelah, I didn’t know you didn’t know.” Tali held Shepard’s hand a little too tight. She could see the fires kindling in those dark human eyes, could feel the Commander begin to seethe.

“That… that _bosh’tet."_

A moment of silence, then Shepard began to laugh, an honest laugh, one that was worth the searing ache along her ribs. Tali sputtered and then joined her, followed shortly by Chakwas’ ringing laugh and Garrus’ metallic chuckle.

Tali gasped, patting the Commander’s hand excitedly. “Shepard! I almost forgot to tell you! I found your hamster!”

Shepard emitted a wholly uncharacteristic noise then, a high-pitched yelp of unexpected delight, eerily reminiscent of the hamster's own squeaky communication. Her good eye shone. “Sunflower? I looked everywhere. _Ev-er-y-where._ How? When? Is he okay?” Garrus shook his head. The Commander had always been a little weird about her pets. Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief that he'd remembered to feed those damn fish... and tried to quell the small flame of jealousy that had sprung up over his girlfriend's reaction to Tali's news.

“That _thing_ was crawling around the ship this whole time? Defecating under _my_ guns?” The turian feigned a shudder, relishing the outraged stare he earned from his girlfriend.

“You know his name, Garrus. Say it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Say his name.”

“You know the vorcha eat those things, right?”

“No, they eat rats. Sunflower is a space hamster. With a fine pedigree, I might add.”

Tali gestured delightedly. “He’d made a nice, cozy nest down in the storage bay. I suspect he was subsisting on those awful protein bars James likes. I found quite the pile of crumbs.”

“I’m not surprised. Vega’s a slob. Is he here, too? Is he coming?” Shepard’s voice was tempered with caution; she hadn’t yet asked the question that was scratching and snarling at the back of her mind. Tali’s glowing eyes took on the shape of a smile within her shadowed mask.

“Steve is shuttling everyone off the Normandy as we speak, Shepard.” The Commander’s heart leapt in her chest; that was a promising answer. She didn’t want to mar this moment, though, to steal these few seconds of joy away after so many months of emptiness. She swallowed the hard question, ignoring it a little longer.

“Well, I wish them luck dealing with that personable young man at reception.” Chakwas was still annoyed.

“I didn’t have any trouble.”

“Yes, well, we’re not all seven-foot-tall turians invigorated by the fury of love’s earnest passion, Garrus.”

The easy banter between friends was like ice on an old aching battle wound. Shepard sunk into her pillow, her lips hinting at a smile, both eyes closed happily. Gazing at her, Garrus buried a hand in the silk of her hair, stroking softly, eliciting from her a small noise of contentment. In this moment, under warm blankets, surrounded by her friends, it seemed to Shepard that things might finally, finally be all right.


	21. Visiting Hours

“Oh, Liara, you didn’t!”

Shepard’s scandalized voice permeated the door. Muffled though it was, Garrus took note; that hospital room was definitely not soundproof. He crossed his legs and turned another page of Tali’s _Popular Quantum Mechanics._ Print magazines were an obscene luxury, but he couldn’t deny the novelty. Though he tried his best to ignore it, the conversation continued inside.

“I did. I hope you don’t mind terribly; he was just so…” Liara waved a blue hand in the air as if the right word would materialize at the tips of her fingers. “Pathetic.”

“Pathetic? Really?” Shepard sat upright in her bed, knees drawn to her chest, tender spine propped up against a mountain of pillows. An unmolested stack of cards sat on her rolling table, ignored. The receptionist had proven his mettle after being bested by Chakwas, a turian, and a quarian. The rest of the Commander’s visitors were forced to stagger themselves over a period of several days, ostensibly to avoid tiring the patient but more likely out of pure spite. “Tell me everything. How pathetic was he, exactly?” Her eyes widened and she leaned in. “Did he _cry?”_

A groan sounded in the hallway; the women looked up briefly, but the sound wasn't enough to interrupt the happy chatter of friends reunited.

“I’m not certain turians have the ability to shed tears, to be honest,” Liara remarked, frowning thoughtfully. “He did spend a lot of time in your room, though. In the dark. Alone. Listening to the soundtrack to _Fleet and Flotilla_  on repeat _.”_ She clapped suddenly. “Oh! And the best part! He got into an actual _fight_ over you with Kaidan. I hope you didn’t like your Reaper model too much—”

Another groan, this one louder and longer than its predecessor, echoed from outside the door. Shepard and Liara locked eyes, lips pursed conspiratorially, then burst into a fit of giggles. In the hallway, the turian buried his face in the magazine, thanking the spirits that humanity was still wasteful enough to use paper periodicals.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Shepard?” A soft knock accompanied the voice, warm, not quite gravelly — more a mix of dark honey and sand. “This a bad time?”

“Oh, yeah, you know, I’ve got places to go, people to see, so…” The Commander leaned back into her pillows, tossing aside the four of spades she’d been trying to place in her game of Solitaire. “Get in here, Kaidan.”

“I didn’t want to bother you. I heard from the others you’re pretty weak still.” The Major sidled in, hands fidgeting at his sides. Vakarian had been right all along. He could hardly believe it. How many times could one woman return from certain death, anyway?

“Who told you that? Was it Carrie? Don’t listen to Carrie.” Shepard shifted, moving the rolling tray away from her bed and holding out an arm. Kaidan didn’t move. She rolled her eyes and waved her wrist, beckoning him.

“You sure?” He moved a little closer, still out of range of her outstretched arms. The Commander sighed.

“The entire Citadel collapsed on top of me. If that didn’t break me, a little old hug from you certainly won’t.”

Kaidan chuckled and bent down, gingerly wrapping his arms around her frame. She was softer than he remembered; slack muscles and weight put on by forced inactivity had changed her. His arms seemed to sink into that softness and her own, slung around his neck, shook from the effort; he realized she was embracing him as tightly as she could. His face inclined into her hair automatically, breathing deep. Some floral note in the hospital soap struck a chord in his memory: their night together, all those years ago. The pervasive fear of the morrow, how his heart beat so loud he was sure she could hear it, the urge to hold on like it was all they'd ever have. It had been, of course. Now his arms were the ones that shook.

Shepard pulled away and Kaidan straightened, passing a nervous hand through his hair. “Sorry, Commander. I just—I really didn’t believe we’d see you again.”

“Same here, Alenko.” Her eyes were bright. Kaidan wondered if she ever thought of him, if the scent of standard-issue Alliance aftershave brought an unwilling flutter to her heart. “I’m really glad you came.”

“Yeah.” He pulled up the chair beside her bed, running his sweaty palms along his thighs. “Hey, lucky thing you’re in Seattle, you know? Gastown’s just a quick hop over the border. I already sent word to Dad — I’m ready for a long-overdue trip home.”

“Did he and your mom ever reconnect? I remember they lost touch during the war.”

“Yeah, yeah, they did, actually. Back at the old homestead as we speak. God, it’ll be good to see them again.” Kaidan’s lips curved into a half-smile, his eyes distant, pointed down at his clasped fingers.

“Weird, isn’t it? That we have all this… free time, now. We’ll have to sign leases, pay rent. Go grocery shopping.” Shepard chuckled. “Bet you never thought you’d be moving back into your parents’ basement, huh?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. Don’t get me wrong, I love my folks, but I don’t think I could handle Mom’s rotating list of chores. Somehow, after becoming the second human Spectre in galactic history, I just can’t reconcile cleaning the gutters every other Tuesday.” Kaidan met her gaze, his eyes brown and brimming with unwhispered nothings. Some things never changed. “How about you? What’s your plan?” He hesitated. “Are you and, ah, Garrus going to…?”

Shepard blinked. She’d been hoping to avoid this question entirely, partially because of its awkward nature, partially because she had no idea how to answer it. Raising a hand in front of her face, she wiggled her fingers stiffly. “Well, I have to nail down those fine motor skills before I can even think about moving furniture.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” Deep down, he knew she’d deflect. He still wanted to hear it, though. Three years and some change later and he still wanted to hear the mundane details of her life, know her plans, be a part of her world.

When had that longing fermented, become bitter? Some hated corner of his mind wished she _had_ died, after all, just so he could finally be free. He remembered his hand on Joker's shoulder, the finality in his voice as he commanded him to turn around. Suddenly ashamed, he pushed back the chair and stood. The air of the hospital room had grown warm, thick, making him dizzy; he had to get out of there. “Listen, Shepard, I’ve got to go—gotta pack before the train home.”

“Train? Isn’t that a little… low-tech?”

“You bet, but there’s nothing in the world like a nice, slow train ride north with a view of the Salish Sea to your left and the Cascades to your right.” Kaidan’s voice was wistful. Shepard was suddenly envious; he had a home to dream of, a landscape to recall fondly, parents to meet him at the depot.

“Spectre status comes with a nice stipend, but it sounds to me like you’ve got a solid investment to come back to.” Shepard smiled, but Kaidan thought it looked a little sad. Before he could stop it his hand was reaching out, thumb and finger tweaking her cheek lightly, familiar.

“I’ll come back and visit again before too long. You can count on it. We’re practically neighbors, after all.” He turned to leave and stopped, facing the door, his back to her. “I really hope you find some peace and happiness, Shepard. Even if it can’t... be with me.” The door slid open under the warmth of his hand and he slipped out, as full of unspoken words and unspent feelings as ever.

 

* * *

 

“Lolita!” The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the hallway outside 525; the speaker’s silhouette was unmistakable, a mass of bulging muscles and thick neck and short faux hawk. Shepard couldn’t decide whether to grin or roll her eyes.

“Couldn’t keep you out forever, could they, Vega?”

“Damn, chica, you look like hell.”

“Guess that means I’m finally in your league. Wanna buy me dinner tonight?” The grin won out. Shepard set aside her hand; FreeCell could wait.

“Yeah right, and risk the big guy ripping me a new one? You’re on your own!!” James jabbed a thumb toward Garrus, still stationed in the hallway. Part of the turian’s shoulder was visible from her vantage point on the bed and she laughed to watch it shrug without argument.

Another figure moved through the light into view. “Stevey!”

“Commander,” Cortez said warmly, walking forward to clasp her hand in both of his. “I knew a brush with Armageddon couldn't keep _you_ down.”

“As if a few omnipotent, immortal robots could kill me. C’mon.” She shifted in the bed and raised one arm weakly, summoning her omni-tool with a few taps. “Great timing, by the way! You’ll never guess who just sent me a message.” A few more taps, then she turned her arm with a grimace, displaying the message screen.

“Oh, no way, Shepard! Serious? The Sorcerers?” Cortez gripped her wrist lightly, staring at the screen agape. James pushed his way in next to him, frowning, then his mouth fell open as well.

“You betcha. Just say the word and I’ll have the whole team here. Hey,” she added, raising her eyebrows at the shuttle pilot, “I hear their point forward has a thing for dudes who know their way around a Kodiak.”

Their banter continued a while longer, Shepard losing herself in the company of her friends. To think that a few days ago she’d given them all up for lost, and yet here they were in her hospital room, bones and blood and flesh and soul, alive and funny and loud.

The door opened with its customary susurrus and the trio looked up, interrupted. Carrie stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, a rabbit caught in the headlights. Shepard’s eye locked on the blonde physical therapist like a tracking beam, narrowing instinctively; the woman blanched, taking a step back. Then the Commander remembered her unusual prescription. A wide, friendly smile slowly took over her face, creeping into existence like a reanimated corpse.

“Oh, hi, Carrie!” she exclaimed brightly. In the hall, Garrus raised a brow plate. In the room, Carrie backed herself up against the wall. “It’s so lovely that you’re here! I was just telling my friends how much I was looking forward to—” here Shepard hesitated, eyes darting to the cart Carrie had pushed in with her, “—to the, uh—” a syringe gleamed wetly on the tray, “—shot? What the hell are you trying to pull here, Carrie?”

“It’s just your B-12, ma’am—”

_“Do. Not. Call. Me. Ma’am.”_

Outside the room, Garrus folded the magazine shut with a sigh and stood. He wondered how many more times he’d have to talk down a shivering, terrified Carrie before Shepard's inevitable release. It hadn’t even been a week.

 

* * *

 

“Knock, knock.”

Shepard’s heart leapt into her throat. She’d been wondering if he would show. Was that fear or relief flooding her abdomen? “Who’s there?” she ventured in a sing-song voice, tossing aside her deck of cards. They slid from the blanket to the floor in a chaotic jumble.

“Joker.”

“Joker who?”

“Joker, the faithful pilot of your cursed spaceship for the past three-plus years. Saved your ass from a volcano once. Forgotten my loyal feats of heroism already, huh?” With an arrhythmic, uneven gait, Joker shuffled into the room, forearm crutches clacking loudly against the tile. He gingerly lowered himself into the bedside chair with a groan. “I just came from PT. With Chakwas here babying you, it looks like I have to stick around a while too. What’s it like, anyway? Being the favorite?”

Shepard smiled, settling back into her pillows comfortably. No emotional outcry, no awkward embraces. Just the snarky banter that defined their long friendship. “Oh, it’s great. Totally worth the giant target painted on my back at any given moment.”

“Hey, speaking of PT, have you met that chick, Carrie? She’s hot.”

“You know saying that has a definitive chance of actually killing me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, your personal bouncer gave me the full rundown of dos and don’ts.” A three-fingered hand saluted casually around the corner of the open door, the sound of a turning page floating from the quiet hallway. Shepard grinned.

“How about this? ‘Don’t’ number one: fly off into the great unknown while a space station collapses on your best friend.” The instant the words fell from her lips, she regretted them. Joker stiffened and leaned away from her, staring hard at the ground. “Shit. I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no, you’re right. You’re completely right. I left you.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Least this time you came out of it half-alive.”

“Joker, really, I didn’t mean—”

“It didn’t even matter, you know?” He shook his head and grabbed the bill of his cap, pulling it low. Hiding. “Would’ve been better if we’d just stayed in place. But hell, we didn’t know what we were outrunning.”

The demon question scrabbling at the back of her mind grew feral, clamoring for supremacy against her other thoughts. There was another piece here, something the pilot wasn’t saying. Shepard winced, trying to push it back, but it surged forward. Everyone had been by for a visit, even Allers. Even Javik, for all his disdain. Everyone except—

“Jeff,” she said. At the name he winced, swiveling his cap even lower. Her mouth formed the next words without feeling them, like it was full of cotton. “They—they told me the advanced systems blew, but I’d hoped…” The bill shadowed his face; she couldn’t read his expression. But Shepard knew. She’d known from the moment she aimed that first shot at the power conduit what he would lose at the price of her gain. She fired anyway. “She’s gone.”

“Yeah.” Joker’s tone was emotionless. Robotic.

“Maybe we could—”

“No.” Still flat, staccato. This moment was practiced, dreaded, each word salt ground into a raw wound. “Even if we could, it wouldn’t... be her. She was who she was because of everything we went through, everything we taught her.” His mouth was a thin line as he dropped silent. “Whoever woke up in that body wouldn’t be my lady. I wouldn’t do that to her—to her memory.”

Shepard imagined tiny, translucent hands wrapping around her throat, holding the air and her words hostage below the growing knot in her esophagus. Massaging fingers to neck, the Commander croaked before she could speak. “My fault—it’s my fault, Joker. I—”

“You? You beat the freaking Reapers, Commander. You did something that no other organic could do, not for a million years of trying.” Joker pulled his cap up and ran a hand through his hair. The light of the hospital fluorescents touched his nose and the top of his cheeks; they were wet. “If EDI paid the ultimate price, it was a hell of a bargain.”

“God." Her throat was dry, but a weak apology slithered out anyway. "I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

The words punched through her like bullets through smoke. _Control._ The Illusive Man’s end-goal. The very idea of allowing the Reapers to exist was abhorrent; at least, Shepard reflected, she knew she wasn’t indoctrinated. But that wasn’t what had driven her forward, limping, gun in hand.

“I don’t _blame_ you. Is that what you think? Jesus, how could I?”

 _Synthesis._ It had felt like a trap, but that wasn’t the deterrent either. The Crucible was a trap. The Catalyst was a trap. Hell, the whole goddamn _Citadel_ was a trap. Shepard was used to traps.

She hadn’t hesitated. EDI’s face floated past and was gone, blurry, barely earning an afterthought. Legion, the geth… she’d spared a few firing neurons to hope their souls were headed for some semblance of peace. There was another face that propelled her steps forward, steadied her gun. An order to follow, a promise to fulfill.

_Destruction._

It was Torfan all over again.

“If it’s worth anything, _I_ wanted to go back for you. Kaidan’s the one who made me turn the ship around.” Joker’s mouth quirked on one side and he shrugged. He was coming back, muscles relaxing, sarcasm coloring his tone. “I don’t think he’s quite over the whole you-cheating-on-him-with-a-scary-uptight-turian thing.”

Outside the room someone cleared their throat, loudly.

“Woulda left him for you in a hot minute. I’m still heartbroken from that rejection back on Purgatory.” Joker's talent for easing tense situations sure was coming in handy; Shepard felt the knots in her stomach loosening. “Ice cold, man.”

“Hey, shut up! You wanna get me killed?” With another groan, Joker raised himself up on his crutches and leaned an elbow on the bed. “Well, I better skadoodle. You need your rest, and I need my skin to maintain its current not-shredded-into-raw-bacon-y integrity. Put in a good word for me with Carrie, eh?” To her surprise he leaned in with some effort and wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a rough hug. “Be seeing ya, Commander.”

He hobbled out, trading a few last words with Garrus before heading toward the exit. His shoulders were stooped, his dragging steps heavy. Shepard watched him go. _You couldn't have known._ His words reverberated in her skull; she _had_ known. She had known with deep clarity, and still felt no friction against the pull of her trigger. There were no potentials, no alternate reality where she would choose his happiness over hers. She had weighed his grief against her happy ending in a matter of seconds and found it light.

A lone playing card fluttered to the ground, smacking the tile with a soft slap. If the Butcher of Torfan had had regrets at the end of her mission, they weren't for its success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the suuuuper long delay, some wild n' crazy life stuff kept me from working on this. And then I wrote far more than I thought I would for this chapter. Should be back on track now -- thanks for waiting and following along!


	22. Hypothesis

“It’s remarkable,” the salarian breathed, flipping between screens on the datapad. “It’s a slow start, true, but everything I’m seeing is up-and-to-the-right.” He tapped the screen twice, darkening it. “Progress.”

“Yes, remarkable indeed,” Chakwas drawled dryly. “Very like a hypothesis I once had. Now, where did that go—ah, that’s right, I left it in the Systems Alliance Journal of Synthetic Medicine, Volume Five—”

“I’ll have you know we came to a similar conclusion in our study of the patient, Doctor—”

“You keep your grubby hands off my hypothesis, Keldon. Sniff out your next grant elsewhere.” Chakwas flipped her silver bob, nonchalant, not even bothering to look away from her monitor as she compiled her report.

“You should rethink your disdain for us, Chakwas. You work here now, after all.” Doctor Keldon tried to keep the annoyance from his voice and failed. Chakwas sighed, spinning her chair to face him in the office they now shared.

“I suppose I am being a bit harsh,” she relented. “But you know just as well as I do that you won’t get a penny from a published and fully tested hypothesis. And I  _ don’t _ work here, I just have… extended admitting privileges.” Chakwas stood, shrugging on her white lab coat and collecting a nearby datapad.

“Think what you will, but we need those grants to fund our research, and we need our research to power the findings that win those grants. Remember why your patient is alive right now, Doctor.”

Chakwas paused in the doorway, the hint of a smile hovering at her lips, one brow raised knowingly. “Don’t get your horns in a twist, Keldon. I’ve got a lead on a project that should keep this place in rubber gloves and gauze for the next decade.  _ If  _ you can pull it off.” And then she actually  _ winked, _ a human expression Keldon recognized as indicative of either sexual interest or a confidential secret. For the sake of saving himself a lengthy HR report, he assumed she intended the latter. “Think you can pull a few strings and get me a meeting with the head of research in bio?”

“Well, yes, but please, Doctor. I’m head of surgery, not—”

“Thanks. Make sure it’s on my calendar, will you?”

“—your secretary—”

Before he could question her further, Chakwas was gone, sauntering away down the hallway. He exhaled a soft grumble. The woman had been here two months and already acted like she owned the place. Despite himself, though, Keldon couldn’t help but wonder what she meant.


	23. Doctor-Patient Confidentiality

“Out with you, Garrus, I get her now.”

The turian paused, looking first at the doctor and then the Commander. He’d been reading aloud from a datapad, seated in the chair beside Shepard’s cot, one leg crossed over the other and — with Shepard tucked into the cot, hair messy, eyes wide — looking for all the world like he was delivering a bedtime story to a rather large child.

Fitting.

“You don’t need her permission. I’m the doctor, I’m in charge here.” Chakwas fluttered a hand, shooing him. “Come now, doctor-patient confidentiality. Out, out, out.”

Garrus shrugged and darkened the datapad, standing. “Suppose I do have a few errands to run. Need anything while I’m out, Shepard?”

“I wouldn’t hate it if you brought me back a cream cheese Danish…”  
  
Chakwas eyed her patient critically. “I hadn’t realized the dietitian added pastries to your very strict nutritional regime.”

“It falls under the umbrella of ‘peaceful thoughts.’”

“She does get a little violent without the Danishes, doc.” Garrus winked at his girlfriend over the doctor’s shoulder. Chakwas heaved a sigh.

“Make it a small one, Garrus. _Very_ small.”

“You got it, doc.” The turian leaned down, pressed a kiss against Shepard’s temple, and meandered out with a wave.

“Well, then,” Chakwas began, seating herself on a rolling stool, “how are we feeling today, Commander?”

“Horrible. How long until you let me have coffee again?”

“Once we can trust that your heart won’t short-circuit your implants with the caffeine boost, we’ll try a cup of decaf.”

Shepard groaned. “It’s been two months, Chakwas. I thought you said you could fix me.”

“I _am_ fixing you, dear. And I have a brand-new bottle of Serrice ice brandy for us to crack open just as soon as I do.” The doctor consulted a screen on her datapad, tracking a line with her finger. “Another month and we should have you walking on your own, then we can talk about introducing a few vices back into your routine.”

“Mmm. I do miss my vices.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Chakwas hesitated, unsure of how to broach the subject she’d come to discuss. She was a woman of great confidence, but some things were difficult to bring up when your patient was also your dear friend. She tapped the screen of the datapad. “I see here your cycle’s returned with some regularity. That’s a very good sign.”

Shepard grimaced. The optical implants had finally begun to heal, both eyes now open and flashing in annoyance. “Yeah. I’m so glad. Hey, next time you see Miranda, can you ask her why they rebuilt me complete with lifelike cramping action?”

The doctor chuckled. “That’s a good sign too, Commander. It indicates your plumbing is doing its job, should you ever decide to use it.” A perfect segue. Of course she could trust Shepard to give her one.

The Commander huffed out a laugh. “Fat chance of that.” But her expression seemed troubled, despite her cynical tone. She looked out the window; the leaves on the trees were beginning to yellow with the onset of autumn. “I’m sure the, ah, _pipes_ are just for show. Cerberus had no reason to fix _that_ part of me.”

“Well now, don’t you sound sure of yourself? From what I know of Cerberus, I wouldn’t be surprised to find they had an entire breeding program laid out for you.” Her patient made a face, but Chakwas raised a knowing finger. “They went to the trouble of cloning you, didn’t they? Whatever would make you think they wouldn’t want an entire army of little Shepards at their disposal, mixing and matching your genetic code with whatever the cat dragged in?”

“Blech. They _were_ pretty creepy. I guess that’s not so out there.” She kept her gaze on the trees; it was windy, a few leaves parting from their branches to flutter to the pavement below. A hand strayed to her abdomen unconsciously. “Still. I… let go of those expectations long ago, Karin. There was a time in my life when I — well, a military career doesn’t allow much room for silly daydreams of a happy family.”

“Not so silly nowadays, Commander.”

Shepard shook her head. Why was Chakwas pushing this? Why now?

The past two months had been a strange contrast to the first half of her hospital stay. She’d gone from a sullen, combative husk, desperately lonely and far too proud to admit it, to a vibrant and determined woman who filled the halls of the Experimental Therapies ward with the foreign sound of laughter and chatter and the noise of living. Her crew — _friends,_ she corrected herself — stayed close and visited often, enjoying their extended post-war shore leave and potential retirement. And then there was Garrus, as eager to join her for a graceless stroll down the parallel bars as he’d been to clear out a batarian terror cell. From when she awoke in the morning to when she fell asleep at night he was at her side, brushing her hair when her arms felt too weak, reading her another chapter of _Harry Potter,_ delivering contraband confections wrapped neatly in white napkins.

She could barely remember the parents who had given up on her early on. She didn’t care to try. It had always been Shepard versus the world. She brushed her own hair, read her own books, found her own meals. She’d never been _taken care of_ before; the very concept was — for lack of a better word — alien. And to discover that Garrus Vakarian — self-proclaimed vigilante, rogue, rule-breaker, lover of rifles, executor of the unjust — had a nurturing side, that he’d bashfully brought her a shiny new hairbrush, the expensive kind, after noticing the tangles one day—

“We don’t know for sure that everything’s… working.” Damn him, he’d planted the seed in her brain that night in London. Shepard clenched her teeth; he probably didn’t even remember. They’d had more important things on their minds, after all. But as the strength slowly seeped back into her bones, she’d found herself considering it more and more. The war was over, the Reapers dead. Wasn't that the big obstacle? How did you bring something like that up again — especially when you were banned from both booze and coffee? Was it just the sort of thing you said to your girlfriend before she left on one final suicide run? Or had he been... serious?

“We do, actually.” Chakwas was looking at her with a strange expression, a paradoxical mix of her usual clinical aloofness and, strangely, an almost maternal softness. “These people know more about your body than you’d think possible. They’ve run every test under the sun. You’re just as fertile as almost any other woman your age. Possibly more so, in fact, given the cocktail of potent vitamins being pumped into your veins. In fact, if your beau weren't a turian, I'd be aggressively prescribing you various forms of birth control.”

“Exactly why none of this matters. I don’t foresee an accident happening anytime soon.”

“Don’t discount your eggs before they’re genetically engineered and artificially fertilized, Shepard.”

Shepard blinked. “What?” The conversation had definitely taken a turn. She wondered if she were actually on the OR table right now with an especially generous anesthesiologist. “Why are you telling me this, Chakwas? Are _you_ angling for an army of Shepards to do your evil bidding?”

The doctor’s lips curved in a secretive smile. “I just want you to be aware of all your options. It’s my duty as your physician.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Out with it, Karin.”

Chakwas’ smile grew, showing teeth. “Let’s just say the trip back to Earth provided ample time for a certain turian gentleman to pester me with hypothetical questions about interspecies procreation.”

Shepard’s eyes went round, her cheeks brightening. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he certainly did. Incessantly, I might add. And despite my informing him several times that I specialize in surgery and triage, not reproductive endocrinology.”

The Commander raised an eyebrow. “Interesting intel, Chakwas. What happened to your precious doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“I wasn’t advising him medically. I was answering what ifs and hows. Hypothetically.”

“Back to my original question, then. Why are you telling me this? Did he—” a spear of something shot through her, hope or fear, she wasn’t sure, “—ask you to say something?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t if he had. That would be highly unethical.” Chakwas swiped at her datapad, then turned it to face her patient. “Commander, we have a rare opportunity at this facility. I would be remiss if I didn’t share it with you.”

Shepard accepted the datapad, scrutinizing the screen. _“Investigating Human-Turian Hybridization and Embryonic Viability: Hypothesis, Experimentation, and Analysis – A Proposal, by Karin Chakwas.”_ She blinked hard. “Damn, that was a mouthful.”

“This university is well-known for its cybernetics research, which is exactly why you ended up here.” Chakwas retrieved the datapad, swiping at it a few more times. “However, as with all research facilities, they chase grants like greyhounds chase a lure. And there are quite a few government jackpots out there right now around interspecies hybridization. An odd side effect of your ushering the races into a glorious age of peace, I’m sure. Bio’s game to try. But for any hope of success, they require willing participants to kick off the program.”

“You want them to experiment on me? On us?” The Commander wrinkled her nose. This didn’t seem like the doctor she knew and trusted. Chakwas had always been skeptical of terran medical practices.

“Not on you, necessarily. Just your, er, gametes. They’d require samples, for testing and experimentation.” Chakwas pursed her lips uncomfortably, unsure how to convey her next words. “And an eventual home for them, of course. Your, er, womb, my dear.”

Shepard stared, shook her head a little, stared some more. Fifteen minutes ago, the future she looked forward to had consisted of puff pastry and the next chapter of _Order of the Phoenix._ Now, it was… this. Whatever this was. “Why are you doing this?” It was the only question well-formed enough to escape her lips.

Chakwas blinked rapidly; with a start, Shepard realized she was warding away tears. The doctor took her hand gently, bridging the gap between physician and friend. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she finally spoke.

“I want you to be happy, darling. We had… we had quite the girls’ night the last time we broke out the good Serrice. I recall very little of that evening with any clarity, but I do remember you asking me your own what ifs and hows.” She petted her patient’s hand lightly. “This would be a long, arduous process, full of uncertainties and almost surely disappointment. But it may be the only opportunity you’ll get for this particular brand of happiness. And if I can give that to you, Shepard, then I must. Call it the maternal instinct I never had time for before, but hell, I want to see you with a house, a yard, a picket fence, a dog, and two-point-five strange-looking hybrid babies.” Her lips quirked into a sardonic smile. “Plus, I'll get published in a few more journals for this. Keldon will positively scream with envy.”

Hand still clasped firmly in the doctor’s, Shepard blinked back her own tears, frowning slightly and offering a hesitant laugh. “I guess I’m being poked and prodded enough as it is. A few more needles won’t hurt.” A vision flashed through her mind, a tall turian stooped over a little girl in a very high chair, brush in hand, pulling it gently through her tangled tresses. She squeezed the doctor’s fingers. “All right. Yes. Let’s go for it. Just—” she hesitated, scrunching her nose, “—don’t tell Garrus I’ve agreed to this yet. We haven’t talked about this stuff since London, and—”

“And it’s awkward, I know." The doctor eyed her sternly. "You'll have to tell him sometime, though, and soon. It takes two, as they say."

Shepard grimaced. "I know, I know."

"Good. As long as I have your permission, Commander, I’ll go forward with my proposal. I’ll keep you updated.” Chakwas released her hold and gathered up her datapad, wiping at her wet eyes with a corner of her sleeve. “I’ll be checking on you later, my dear. Ring the nurse if you need anything.”

And with that, the doctor swept out, leaving Commander Shepard — scourge of the Reapers, protector of the galaxy, uniter of races — absently running a hand across her abdomen and smiling faintly at the autumn trees outside.


	24. What Ifs & Hows

“Ah, there you are. A moment, if you please, Garrus?”

The turian halted with a wince, hastily tucking the package he carried behind his back. Without much else to occupy her time in recovery, Shepard had mastered the art of what humans would term “puppy-dog eyes.” It was a skill most useful for negotiating pastries and Italian subs out of her underground network of smugglers. Less useful, however, for getting him out of trouble with Chakwas.

“Is it important, doc? I was just on my way to, uh—to—” He’d never been any good at lying. Just because it was a turian thing didn’t make him feel like less of an idiot, though. Chakwas eyed the arm disappearing behind his waist critically.

“Oh, I don’t care about the sandwich. Don’t get your skivvies in a bunch.” She strode past him, silver bob swaying with not a hair out of place, waving her hand for him to follow. “My office. Come. And close the door behind you, please.”

Garrus shrugged. “All right, but if I get in trouble, I’m blaming you. Hungry Shepard bears a suspicious resemblance to an angry thresher maw.” At the doctor’s gesture he settled into Keldon’s empty chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “So. What do you need, doc? I’m all up to date on my vaccines, and my physical’s not for another—” he tapped his omnitool a few times, “—two months and six days.”

Chakwas steepled her fingers, gazing at him silently. Garrus stared back. The doctor’s eyes began to narrow slightly, deep in thought. The turian’s shifted back and forth uneasily, discomfited.

“Is this about Shepard? Is—” a current of dread shocked through him, nerves electric to his fingertips, “is something wrong?” Part of him believed the human woman he loved to be immortal; the other part expected she’d be taken from him any minute. To say his inner dialogue was exhausting would be an understatement.

That snapped the doctor out of her thoughtful stare. She waved a hand dismissively. “What? Oh, dear, no. The woman’s strong as an ox and regenerates like a krogan. She’s coming along just fine. No, Garrus, this is about you.”

“Me?” His mandibles spread wide as he paused, taken off-guard. Despite her extraordinary competence in treating alien races, Garrus had never seen Chakwas for anything beyond a battlefield wound and a cough here or there. His PCP had been a turian back on the Citadel. Whatever this was about, it couldn’t be _too_ specific. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me. I take all my vitamins and brush my teeth twice a day. I’m good, Chakwas.”

“Very cute. Take a look at this.” Chakwas handed him her datapad, opened to the same screen she had shown Shepard just a few days past.

 _“Investigating Human-Turian Hybridization and Embryonic Viability: Hypothesis, Experimentation, and Analysis – A Proposal, by Karin Chakwas.”_ Garrus frowned. “Wow.”

“Now, I know it’s a lot to spring on you, but I—”

Garrus held up a three-fingered hand, cutting her off. “Frankly, I’m flattered, doctor. But I’m already spoken for.”

Chakwas blinked. “You know perfectly well that—”

“Besides, I sort of thought you and Adams had an… understanding?”

The doctor’s cheeks brightened. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be, Vakarian,” she warned.

The turian’s mandibles flared wide in an approximation of a grin. “Did you expect anything less, Chakwas?” He turned his attention to the datapad, scrolling through the text. “Hmm… very thorough, doctor. It seems you remember our little chats on the ride home.” With a tap he darkened the datapad, handing it back to her. “It’s an interesting proposal, I’ll give you that.”

Chakwas raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound convinced. I would have thought you’d be more excited.”

Garrus leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. That Chakwas had taken it this far was unexpected; true, he'd made a few inquiries as they wended their way back to Sol, but he'd never imagined anything would come of it. All because of one innocent comment. Every detail of that night in London was etched into his memory with startling clarity.

_He was issuing orders when she walked into the room, hardsuit clacking softly against the concrete. She waited in agitated silence as he finished, the turian soldier nodding and pressing a finger to his comm unit._

_Part of him hoped the man would pipe up again, offer another problem for him to solve — anything to keep this moment at bay just a little while longer. Shepard stood there, hands twisting together, gazing at her boots, patient and anxious._

_“Shepard. So I guess this is…”_

_“Just like old times?” she supplied, kicking at a jagged pebble. He had been about to say goodbye. Her answer was better. It usually was._

_“Might be the last chance we get to say that.”_

_Something flashed behind her eyes; doubt, perhaps, or just regular old fear. Shepard had never been one to hide how she felt about a fight, but her body language was different this time. Rigid and jerky, she fidgeted, reluctant to hold his gaze._

_“Think we’re gonna lose?” The waver in her voice caught at his heart._

_“No. I think we’re about to kick the Reapers back into whatever black hole they crawled out of.” Garrus slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer; she sunk against him, her hands grasping the front of his carapace like it was the only solid thing left in the galaxy. The turian soldiers watched from the corners of their eyes; they still weren’t comfortable with the interspecies couple. “Then we’re going to retire somewhere warm and tropical and live off the royalties from the vids.” He placed two long, taloned fingers against the warm skin of her neck, lightly stroking her jawline with his thumb. All that stood between them and the end of all worlds was this soft flesh, lifeblood pulsing gently beneath his touch. Her Kuwashii visor glowed blue against her cheek; he wished she’d worn a full helmet for this one. There was never any arguing with Shepard. “Maybe even find out what a turian-human baby looks like.”_

_A pretty rose blush crept across her cheeks. For all that he was still unused to the basic facts of human biology — red blood still seemed like something out of a sci-fi B-vid — he loved the reactions his words evoked in her. She laughed, bashful, caught off-guard. He hadn’t thought to hear that sound again; it smoothed across his raw nerves like a balm. “I’m game to try. Though I think adoption’s a better idea — biology may not cooperate.” Shepard reached up and pulled his face closer, fingers stroking the tender skin behind his mandibles. He almost purred at the gesture, leaning into it. She kissed him then, lips and tongue pressed to his hungrily, in that strange human way that had become so addicting. There was longing there, words too dangerous to speak now, and the faint flavor of terror._

It was a memory he unfolded only rarely these days, heavy as it was with desires he’d been reluctant to revisit. At that moment, sending the woman he loved straight into the crosshairs of a Reaper, he wanted as much of her as she would give him. Garrus rubbed a hand along his crest in agitation. “We talked about kids once, but that was… another life.”

Chakwas leaned forward, eyes intense and unwavering. “Forgive the presumption, Garrus, but this is a _better_ life. If there were ever a time to talk about it, it’s now.”

The turian sighed, flexing his mandibles in thought. “You’ve gotta give me a little more to go on, doc. How would this thing work, anyway?”

“I don’t know the specifics yet. It _is_ a proposal, after all.” Chakwas crossed a leg over her knee and leaned her chin on one hand thoughtfully. “This sort of research has been attempted before, of course. We all know the krogan have long been interested in interspecies procreation, though they’ve had trouble getting buy-in from top geneticists. There have been a few notable salarian attempts to pull asari longevity into their genes, and several joint quarian-turian hybridization efforts following the popularity of _Fleet and Flotilla.”_

“Attempted, you say. What’s the success rate?”

Chakwas cleared her throat. “Not terribly promising, I’m afraid. One quarian-turian experiment got quite close, but it didn’t progress past the early stages of fetal development before termination.”

“You know, you aren’t trying very hard to convince me that this is a good idea, doctor.”

“There are variables to consider in every unique case, Garrus. In that example, the mother was quarian and contracted a virus during a routine prenatal checkup. Humans are exponentially more resilient than quarians, and I have a hunch that there are a few other factors in our favor, as well.”

“Such as?” The turian’s arms were crossed, one brow plate raised skeptically. What was that human expression? _A fool’s errand._ It seemed pretty apt; humans were good at poetic turns of speech, if nothing else.

“Allow me to ask _you_ a question. Why were the Collectors preying upon humanity, in particular? Think carefully, now.”

Garrus frowned, wracking his brain. The Collectors _had_  targeted humanity with disturbing precision, but the exact details were eluding him. Part of it was revenge for Shepard’s destruction of Sovereign, but there had been something else, a reason hovering at the edge of his mind that kept slipping from his grasp—

“Something about their genetic diversity, right?”

“Close, Garrus, very close. Genetic _malleability._ Compared to the other advanced races in the galaxy, humanity’s genetic code is remarkably adaptable. We’ve known this for quite some time — our scientists have been splicing animal DNA with our own for almost two centuries now — but this is the first time we’ve considered trying alien DNA… and have had willing participants for the trials.”

The turian started in surprise. “Wait. You don’t mean—”

“I do mean, in fact.”

“This is crazy, Chakwas.”

“Is it? You two are in love. The galaxy is stable. And First Contact was only a few decades ago — it’s still rare to find human-turian couples in general, rarer still for them to express interest in biological children.”

 _Biological children._ It sounded like a bad plot twist in a hanar soap opera. “What are the risks?”

The doctor ticked off the count on her fingers as she spoke. “Failure to launch. Disappointment. Down the line, there could be terminated pregnancies, potentially even stillbirths. Most of the likely fallout would be emotional. Without further research and experimentation, I can’t say more with any certainty.”

“It sounds a bit grim, to be honest, doc. I don’t want…” Garrus sighed and shook his head. Shepard was the one who'd taught him not to charge headlong into shaky situations. If ever there were a time to take her coaching to heart, it was now. “I don’t want to put our relationship through hell without a little hope to offset it.”

“Believe me, there’s already a massive amount of scientific and political interest behind this project. We’ll have only the best minds working on this. And keep it quiet, but I’ve enlisted the help of a certain renowned geneticist with an even better understanding of Shepard’s body than you.”

Garrus felt a blue heat creep up his neck. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with Chakwas’ security clearance when it came to the intimate details of his relationship, but having Miranda on board was a good sign. After all, she'd rebuilt his girlfriend from dead cells and proprietary tech; a baby should be a damn cakewalk after that. Clearing his throat, he moved on. “And you believe Shepard might be interested?”

“I’m her physician, Garrus. I can’t break doctor-patient confidentiality, but please trust me on this.”

Something stirred within him. He’d always expected to settle down one day, had always imagined adding the pitter-patter of little talons to the soundtrack of his life. But for so long he’d been a career man, chasing a job, a purpose, a cause, seeking a sense of fulfillment that seemed perpetually just out of reach. It kept him busy; he’d never had the time or stability for long relationships. Sure, he’d enjoyed a few flings here and there, but nothing that stuck.

Of course, that had pissed his father off royally. He could almost hear Dad’s voice now. _You’re getting older, Garrus. You can’t play at rogue cop forever. I can get you an advisory role to the Primarch — good salary, good job security,_ he’d lectured during one of their long-ago vid chats. _It’s time to settle down. Bring home a girl from a respectable clan, start a family, carry on the Vakarian name._ He wondered what the old man would have to say about his pink, fleshy, outrageously human lover.

He wanted to find out. Wanted to smirk at the shock on Dad’s face when she showed up at dinner, wanted to hear her trade quips with Solana, wanted to bring her to the salarian research hospital to meet Mom on one of her stronger days. Wanted to show her his childhood home on Palaven, if it wasn’t a smoking pile of rubble by now. Wanted to come home to her every night, share a mortgage, argue over paint colors.

He’d said his piece in London not believing anything would come of it, but laid out here before him was a possibility. Distant? Yes. Dangerous? Almost certainly.

Garrus always expected the worst. But he didn’t mind a pleasant surprise every now and then.

“What do I have to do? It doesn’t involve needles, does it? I hate needles.”

Chakwas smiled knowingly. “Your role is a pleasant one, Garrus. Bio only needs a sample to start. I believe you still have a few of those old vids Joker lent you, yes?”

“I, ah, don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” The OSDs were sandwiched between a few volumes of turian military strategy and a krogan encyclopedia back at his apartment.

“Mm-hmm." She spun around to her terminal, fingers tapping rapidly at the haptic interface. "I've sent you a number of forms and educational resources. If you're willing to explore this further, you'll want to familiarize yourself with everything this sort of research entails. The first step is simply analyzing turian gamete cells to identify hybridization opportunities with their human counterpart. It's a hands-off process for you... mostly." 

"Right. And after that?"

"After that, it gets a little more complicated. One step a time, however." Chakwas pulled up a calendar on the holoscreen. "I'll set up an appointment with one of our educational counselors so you know exactly what you're getting into. Be sure none of that paperwork gets lost in your spam folder; you'll need it. How's your Thursday morning?"

"Thursday works." Garrus shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He stood, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. “Just… don’t tell Shepard I've agreed to this yet, all right? She’s been through a lot. If this doesn’t pan out…”

Chakwas pursed her lips. "That's possible at the moment, but you'll need to broach the subject sooner rather than later. We can't move past preliminary research until we have firm agreement from both parties."

"I just need to find the right way to word it, doc. Give me some time."

“I know, I know. Mum’s the word. For now.”

With that, Garrus nodded, raised two fingers in farewell, and strode out the door to deliver the now-soggy hero. His stomach felt like it did when someone accidentally flipped off the gravity. It was a slim opportunity, sure, but it was there: a baby. A baby with a human. A baby with _Shepard._ He could imagine her cradling an M-920 Cain, but an infant?

A sharp needle of pain lanced through his brain. Liara's shared memory flashed in its wake: London, the two friends embracing, a dull gleam reflecting in Shepard's dark brown eyes. _"He wants us to have a baby, Liara. Together. I didn’t know I wanted that, until…”_

An unfamiliar warmth spread within him, a feeling he didn't have a name for. Maybe it wouldn't work out. Maybe it was just a fool's errand. But hell, they had a  _chance._ And Garrus had learned his lesson long ago: when an elusive target crosses your sights, you don't hesitate. You take the shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, it's been forever! I'm so sorry for the lag in updates. Some family health stuff over the past month has been a bit emotionally draining, but no worries, I'm still daydreaming about Garrus/writing when I have time. ;) Onward & upward!


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